The Certainty of Things Yet Unseen
by Firebird9
Summary: Post-ep for S02E12. Jack may have farewelled Phryne until their next murder case, but she isn't overly surprised when he turns up on her doorstep just two days later. But when tragedy strikes Jack is forced to realise how close waiting so long has brought him to leaving things too late.
1. Chapter 1

**The Certainty of Things Yet Unseen**

**Author: **Firebird9

**Rating:** K+

_Don't forget to **Save Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries!** 'Like' the show on Facebook, email the ABC through their website, and buy the DVDs._

* * *

He had farewelled her until their next murder investigation, but Phryne wasn't overly surprised when Jack turned up on her doorstep a mere two days later without even the rumour of a murder as an excuse. His shadowed eyes and subtle air of exhaustion were enough to tell her, if his presence was not, that Rosie was not the only person in a state of emotional turmoil. He could, of course, have drowned his sorrows in the privacy of his office, but the almost two years of their association had ingrained another habit within him. Besides, her whiskey was better.

Mr. Butler announced him and showed him in, and she passed him a drink without a word. He knocked it back with an apologetic grimace and she held out her hand for the tumbler and refilled it before gesturing towards the seats by the fire.

"When was the last time you ate a proper meal?" she asked, and was answered with a shrug.

"Things have been rather hectic of late."

She rolled her eyes and shook her head before walking to the door and calling down the hallway "Mr. B? A late supper for myself and the Inspector, please."

A distance-muffled "very good, Miss," came from the direction of the kitchen, and she gave a satisfied nod before taking her seat opposite him.

"How's Rosie?"

He shrugged again. "Her father and ex-fiancé are both in gaol. Fletcher is likely to be there a while, if he doesn't hang, and George is disgraced. She's distraught over that, as well as the knowledge of what they were doing. She blames herself for giving Fletcher such easy access to her father."

Phryne made a dismissive gesture. "Fletcher was Sanderson's godson. Being engaged to Rosie might have made things easier for him, but he would have managed regardless. Having the Commissioner of Police in your pocket..." Yes, she could see the advantages in that.

"And all you have is a Detective Inspector."

"Are you still in my pocket, Jack? I imagine Rosie might feel a little crowded in there."

He made a face, and she knew in that instant that Rosie – and she herself – were what he had come there to talk about.

"Four times, Miss Fisher. Four times she's left me in the last eight years. Three of those times she's come back, and the fourth..." He made a gesture, indicating that she could see for herself what had happened the fourth time.

"She asked you for a divorce."

"She says now it was Fletcher's idea. Which I don't doubt."

"She was useful to him."

"But it was her decision to go along with it. Three times I took her back, and I would have taken her back the fourth as well. Because that's what you do. That's what marriage is. A promise for better or worse, no matter how bad the 'worse' may be, and I would have taken her back, if that was what she wanted."

"And is that what she wants, now?"

He gave a brief, humourless snort. "Now, yes. That's what she wants now." Phryne couldn't recall ever hearing such bitterness in his tone before. Even when she had pushed him into real anger, Jack had always been willing to forgive her, and, it seemed, Rosie as well. But this wasn't just anger, this was hurt as well, and she knew from experience that hurt was the one thing that would make Jack Robinson withdraw.

"'Now'?" she repeated, matching his scornful intonation.

"Well, right now she's in the middle of a crisis. She's lost her father and her fiancé, and while she's hardly indigent she has no skills or trade by which to support herself, and she lacks the strength of character to persevere regardless."

"And so she's come running back to you?"

"As she's done before: when she needed money; when she'd fallen out with her sister; when her father was under suspicion of murder; when that footballer her fiancé was associated with was killed. She's come running back to me to sort it out."

"And will you?"

"I always have before. Whenever she's needed me, I've been there for her, for as long as she _has_ needed me. And it's never made a blind bit of difference. So what's the point, Miss Fisher? What's the point of accepting back a woman who will never stay with me, and who, to be honest, I don't really want back anyway?" His voice softened, so that she had to strain her ears to hear it. "When that would mean sacrificing my chances with a woman who I can't seem to get rid of no matter how hard I try. A woman who," and now, even staining her ears she could barely hear him, "I'd rather die than be rid of anyway."

This was new. Always before it had been a matter of his wife leaving him. Now, finally, almost a year after his divorce, he was talking about leaving his wife. About severing the emotional ties that bound him to her as surely as his marriage vows ever had. But still...

"Jack. Things between us..." She searched for words. "You mean more to me than any man ever has. But regardless of anything we may have said, we've never done anything that can't be taken back. And I'd never want to be the reason that a husband left his wife."

He looked up then from his contemplation of the tumbler in his hands and set it aside. Hesitantly he reached out his hands for hers, and just as hesitantly she allowed herself to take them. "She left me, Phryne. Not the other way around. And the reason I didn't contest the divorce, well, it was because of you, but it wasn't because I want to be with you." He gave a wry smile. "Although you have to have realised by now that that's something I do want, even though I accept that you may never feel the same way about me."

She opened her mouth to object, but then closed it again. Right now was not the time, not when he clearly needed so desperately to talk.

"Ever since the War, I've been surviving. Not living, just surviving. Just doing the duty that lay in front of me, day after day after day. I stopped thinking about the future. About joy, and happiness, and hope. And then I met you, and God, you made me angry! Because everything was a game to you. Men were a game, my job was a game, _ I_ was a game, and all the pain and misery in the world, it just didn't seem to mean anything to you." He glanced down, ashamed. "Until I realised that you'd suffered too. Even more than I had." He looked back up at her, and his expression softened for the first time that evening. "And you could still laugh. Still smile, still dance. And you made me smile as well. And you reminded me, for the first time in years, that life was something more than just a duty to be discharged. So when Rosie told me she wanted a divorce I realised there was no logical reason to deny her. Why make both of us miserable, when we'd already been miserable for so long? That was why I divorced her, Phryne. Not for your sake; for mine."

She nodded, letting him see her acceptance of what he said. The idea that she was responsible for the end of his marriage was not something she would have wanted to exist between them, so to hear him affirm so clearly that she had really had nothing to do with it was a relief. "Does Rosie know all this?"

"She knows that I won't be taking her back. I told her so tonight."

"And how did she take it?"

He closed his eyes, and she could see he was fighting back tears. Of course, Jack was a good man before all else, and a compassionate one. Regardless of the reason, he must find it agonising to turn his back on someone in trouble, especially when that someone was a woman he had once loved. "Not well. Not well at all."

"And I suppose she blames me?"

"Almost entirely." Earnest eyes sought hers. "But this is not your fault. I want us both to be very clear on that. This is between her and me; you have nothing to do with it."

She nodded her acceptance once again. "But I'm here for you, Jack. For as long as you need me, in whatever way you need me." She saw his eyes darken and heard his breath catch in sudden awareness. Well, yes, she had meant _that_ as well, but it wasn't her only meaning, and she wanted him to understand that. She squeezed his fingers. "I don't just mean that, although..." she let her lips curve briefly into a smile of invitation, and he smiled in return. "But if you need company, someone to listen," she heard Mr. Butler's soft tread in the hall, waiting for an appropriate moment to interrupt, "a hot meal, perhaps?"

He chuckled a little at that. Her attempts to feed him, often disguised with various levels of sincerity and effectiveness as attempts to bribe him for information or assistance, had become something of a private joke between them. "Supper does sound good."

Mr. Butler knew his cue when he heard it, and stepped quietly into the room. "Miss, Inspector, supper is served."

...

They ate mainly in companionable silence. Mr. Butler had prepared a gratin, and Phryne couldn't help but wonder whether the man had realised that the very first meal she had ever fed Jack had been a gratin, offered to him in his office after he arrested her for breaking and entering, in return for a look at some rather incriminating photographs. Probably. Her butler really did seem to be almost psychic at times.

The lack of conversation gave Jack a chance to compose himself and Phryne a chance to reflect on how best to proceed. Granted, Jack wanted her, and God knew she wanted him too, but in his current state of mind a sudden escalation in their relationship might be something he'd later come to regret. Better to take things slowly for now, she thought. After all, they had waited this long, so a few more days – or weeks – surely wouldn't do any harm. And she needed time to think things through for herself. Jack would be no casual affair. Once they took that step he would consider himself bound to her, even if they never went as far as formalising that bond, and he would consider her to be bound to him as well. In the last few months she had found herself withdrawing more and more from intimacy with other men, but to commit herself to total fidelity for the foreseeable future was something that would require consideration. While Jack had promised her once that he would never ask her to change, a romantic relationship between them would require changes on both sides if it was to have any chance of success. So she needed to be very clear on where exactly she was willing to compromise, and what he was just going to have to accept as part and parcel of being with her.

...

It was very late when she saw him out.

"Where's Rosie staying at the moment?" she asked, although she suspected she already knew.

"With me," he confirmed. "I'm sleeping in the spare room." A wry smile. "God knows, it's hardly the first time."

"I hope you won't misunderstand me, but," she waved her hand towards the stairs, "I have a number of very well-appointed spare rooms, should you ever find yourself in need of an alternative."

He gave her a grateful smile. "Thank you, but I imagine Rosie will be moving on very soon."

Phryne nodded "I imagine so." She leaned up and laid a gentle kiss on his cheek. "Goodnight, Jack."

He turned towards her, his eyes dark and serious, and she froze, scared to move in case she frightened him away, lips slightly parted, breath catching in anticipation. He laid one hand on her cheek and leaned in to brush a gentle kiss across her lips. It was over in a moment, that first real, tender kiss, but its ghost lingered as he smiled at her. "Goodnight, Phryne."

* * *

_What do people think? Is this worth continuing with?_


	2. Chapter 2

_Oh my. I was quite overwhelmed by all your lovely reviews: thank you so much! I'm glad you enjoyed chapter one, and that being the case I'll happily write on. My apologies for the delay in updating: I felt that I needed to rewatch the episode and make some notes on the actual case before I could continue, and life being what it can sometimes be it's taken me a while to get that done. This fic seems set to be a lot more romance-based and a lot less case-focussed than some of my others, so I hope you find it worth the wait._

_Perpetua's 'real' name is my own invention. Readers, especially British ones, may note a degree of similarity to that of another notorious procuror of children._

* * *

Two evenings later, Jack found himself once again standing on the pavement outside Phryne's residence. Part of him was reluctant to intrude for a second time in so short a period – it was, after all, hardly proper for him to be spending so much time in her company without a case to work on. Another, somewhat larger, part of him, however, really couldn't give a damn about propriety. His work life for the last four days had been consumed by investigations into Fletcher and De Vere's activities, and the question of the duration and degree of George Sanderson's involvement. Jack's former closeness to, and respect for, his ex-father-in-law had become a constant source of agony as he realised just what the man had been willing to ignore in order to obtain the position of Chief Commissioner. Sanderson's insistence that he had been focussed on the 'greater good' that he could do once he was in charge of the Melbourne Police Force rang hollow in Jack's ears when weighed against the horrors to which he had been willing to subject innocent young girls in order to obtain it, and he frequently found himself stepping outside for a breath of fresh air in an attempt to control the roilings of his stomach.

Meanwhile, at home, Rosie seemed determined to fulfil every housewifely duty except the marriage debt, whilst at the same time refusing to speak to, or even look at, him unless it was absolutely necessary. Where work might once have been a refuge from home, or home a haven from work, now he felt as though he were fighting a war on two fronts and, besieged on both sides, he had finally given in to the urge to retreat to the one piece of friendly territory where he knew he might find sanctuary.

"I apologise for turning up unannounced. Is Miss Fisher at home?" he asked as Mr. Butler opened the door.

The older man gave him a friendly smile. "I'm sure she'll be more than happy to see you, Inspector. Please, come on in."

He hung coat and hat and then, at Mr. Butler's "go on through", headed into the parlour.

"Jack!" Phryne was on her feet, smiling, obviously pleased to see him.

He cleared his throat. "Miss Fisher."

"Not 'Phryne'?" she asked, her smile fading slightly.

His own smile widened as he stepped towards her. "I wasn't sure... Phryne."

Her smile returned and she stepped forward to meet him until they were standing toe-to-toe, jade eyes meeting hazel, bodies not quite touching. The silence stretched out between them, heavy with potential and anticipation. At last, Jack cleared his throat awkwardly and stepped back slightly.

"Drink?" Phryne asked, and he felt himself relax as they stepped back onto familiar ground.

"Please."

She waved him towards the settee as she completed the established ritual of filling a tumbler and bringing it to him, collecting her own en-route.

"So," she began, curling up on the end of the sofa, still not quite touching him. "What's the latest?"

"Well, the news on the slaving ring is grim," he began. "Thus far, we've determined that 'Perpetua' has been procuring girls for Fletcher for at least two years, and De Vere may not be the only captain he was using to transport them. We have the names of at least a dozen girls so far, and we've been in contact with our colleagues overseas, but I doubt we'll ever locate them." He drew a shuddering breath at the thought of what those poor girls were enduring and would continue to endure indefinitely, and took a large swallow of whiskey.

"Oh, Jack." She leaned forward and placed her hand briefly on his arm, her expression mirroring the grief and helplessness that he knew was written all over his own face. He nodded in grateful acknowledgement of her empathy and continued.

"However, the Magdalene Laundries are under scrutiny and facing pressure to make improvements. I doubt it'll amount to much, but their job placement process is likely to be far more tightly controlled from now on. We've had full co-operation in our investigation from Mother Aloysius as well as the Bishop, and it does appear at least as though Perpetua – whose real name, by the way, is Moira Hindley – was acting alone. "

"Well, that's something at least." There was a pause before she broke the silence by asking, "and how are things at home?"

He shrugged. "Less than pleasant. On the one hand, Rosie seems determined to impress me with her wifely skills. On the other, that doesn't extend to actually talking to me, looking at me, or giving any indication that she doesn't loathe me with every fibre of her being."

Phryne winced. "Ouch."

"I don't know what to do, Phryne. We can't go on as we are, that much is obvious, but I can't bring myself to throw her out on the street. She's given no indication that she intends to leave of her own accord, and I've no idea where she'd go if she did: her sister isn't even speaking to her at the moment."

She thought for a moment. "You could always sell the house?"

He gave her an amused look. "Complete with housewife."

"I was being serious!" She leaned forward again, and her tone shifted, indicating that she was, indeed, speaking in all sincerity. "Think, Jack. If the house goes on the market, she'll realise that she has to leave sooner or later. And once it does sell you'll have the finances to send her away with something to help her out."

He nodded slowly as he considered her words. It was actually a very good idea, and a very workable one. Throughout his marriage, Jack had made a point of not exercising the male privilege that would give him the right to do such a thing regardless of his wife's consent. But Rosie was no longer his wife, and while he really _wouldn't_ throw her out on the street he couldn't continue living with her indefinitely. "That... could work," he agreed. "In fact," he continued more briskly as he made up his mind, "it almost certainly would work. Miss Fisher, you are a genius."

She smiled and preened at that in a way that made him chuckle for the first time in two days, before he sobered and reached out to take her hands.

"But there's something else we should probably discuss," he continued, his thumbs stroking gentle circles over her skin in a way that made her heart flutter.

"Oh?"

"Mmm. And I want to be clear that whatever you say has no bearing on my decisions regarding Rosie. But this thing between us..." he looked up, holding her gaze. "Phryne, I want – I _need_ – to know where I stand with you."

"Where do you want to stand?" she responded almost reflexively, and saw him wince slightly.

"Please, don't play games. Not tonight. I just don't have the energy for it tonight."

She nodded slowly. "Alright." She drew a deep breath. "I've never done this before, Jack. Even with Rene, in Paris, it was never like this. Whatever else Rene and I were, we were never _friends_. You're – you've been a good friend to me, better than I deserve sometimes. And it doesn't matter what we're doing – investigating a murder, talking over drinks, riding a roller-coaster – I enjoy spending time with you. Just being near you. When I thought I'd lost you, after Gertie died -" he hung his head, ashamed of the way he had treated her during, and especially following, that case "- it hurt in a way I'd never thought I could hurt before."

"Phryne, I -"

"- You're sorry, I know. And I can't blame you for the way you reacted." She didn't need to, he thought; he blamed himself enough for both of them. "But it made me realise how much you've come to mean to me. Your friendship, your support." She paused. "Your... affection. It made me aware of how much I love you, too. And that frightens me. Because I really don't know what I'm supposed to do about it."

"Well, normally when two people are in love -"

"- I can't face the idea of marriage, Jack, not even to you."

He squeezed her fingers, amused by both her tendency to make assumptions and her proclivity for jumping in before she had all the facts. "I was going to say 'they kiss'."

That appeared to render her speechless for once, except for a small "oh," and he waited, smiling, for her to recover herself enough to utter a rather more suggestive and drawn-out "Oh."

"Mmm," he agreed, and raised one hand to cup her cheek, captivated by the sudden preoccupied, almost sleepy, look in her eyes as the desire that was never far from the surface when they were together welled up within her. As he leaned towards her his senses were overwhelmed by sudden awareness – the softness of her skin beneath his palm, the scent of her perfume, the ruby red of her lipstick and the rapid flutter of her pulse in her throat.

Phryne found she could barely breathe as Jack leaned towards her. She could smell the whiskey on his breath, see the faint trace of stubble on his jaw. Most of all, though, she could see the look in his eyes, an expression of such intense love and anticipation and _want_ that it threatened to steal what little breath she had left. Slowly, so slowly, he leaned towards her, and this time when his lips touched hers it was neither swift nor light but rather a long, lingering meeting of lips and tongues as their mouths at last explored one another. She moaned lightly as his tongue sought entry to her mouth, hearing an answering groan from him as she parted her lips in eager response. She reached out to touch him, only to find that he was already reaching for her, drawing her near, hands gentle but insistent as he pulled her to him.

When at last they parted she was sitting almost in his lap, one leg flung across his thighs, their bodies angled together. His hand cradled the back of her head, caressing her hair as his gaze once again held hers. Gently he leaned forward and brushed a few more kisses across her lips and jaw, until she tilted her head back with a sigh to allow him access to her throat. He obliged, working his way down as far as her collarbone before raising his head again. She straightened her neck, and he leaned his forehead against hers.

"I do understand your feelings about marriage," he began, responding to a statement she could barely remember making. "To be honest, I don't know how keen I'd be to commit myself that way again, at least at the moment. But I couldn't bear to share you with other men, Phryne. I love you, and I'd do almost anything for you, but- " he shook his head against hers "- I couldn't do that."

"Oh, Jack." She laid a gentle kiss on his lips, then pulled back far enough to meet his gaze. She had spent much of the night after his last visit thinking about this very thing, before finally reaching a decision in the early hours of the morning. "I would never ask you to."

His smile was blissful as he pulled her closer still, adjusting their position until she was reclined comfortably against him with her back to his chest and her head on his shoulder. For a while they simply sat like that, his arms around her and her fingers stroking them lightly. "I'll have to head home at some point," he commented eventually, pressing a kiss to the side of her head. Whilst the thought of a guest room – or her bedroom – for the night was tempting, he really couldn't face the thought of the storm that would inevitably erupt were he to spend the night with Phryne only to return home with his clothes marked with her lipstick and scented with her perfume. He half-expected her to object, but she simply nodded her head against his chest.

"You'll see me at the station tomorrow," she told him. "Detective Inspector Harrison has finally decided to call me in to discuss my statement."

His grip tightened around her at the memory of what had almost happened to her when – against his strict instructions – she had gone to the docks that night, but all he said was "Harrison's not known for his sense of humour, but he is impressed by competence and initiative. He's already said that he thought you handled yourself well, and he didn't even qualify it with 'for a woman', so be matter-of-fact and stick to the point and you might just find yourself with another Detective Inspector in your pocket."

She craned round to look at him. "What on Earth would I want with another one?" She rolled over to face him, propping herself up with her arms on his chest and grinning at him cheekily. "I already have the pick of the bunch."


	3. Chapter 3

Much later that night, Jack sat up quite suddenly in the narrow spare-room bed he was currently occupying.

"She took Johnson and Yates with her!" he exclaimed aloud.

Realising what he had done he bit his tongue and waited to hear Rosie's voice calling from her – his, their, call it what you will – bedroom, but either she was asleep and hadn't heard him or else she was content to ignore him, and he relaxed back onto the mattress. Phryne hadn't gone to search the Pandarus alone. She had taken Bert Johnson and Cecil Yates with her, and while there was no denying that those two were a couple of red-ragging ruffians they were also both former soldiers and fiercely loyal to their sometime employer. Compared to the situation less than a year ago, when he had had to lock her up in an ultimately futile effort to prevent her from running off to offer up her life to Murdoch Foyle in exchange for Jane's, it was an act of the utmost circumspection and foresight. Comforted beyond measure by the realisation that, consciously or not, Phryne Fisher had changed markedly since he had first met her, he rolled over, closed his eyes, and promptly fell sound asleep with a smile still curving his lips.

...

Grey-haired and grim-faced, D. I. Harrison was every bit as humourless as Jack had implied, but Phryne put her best businesslike foot forward, arriving in a stylish-yet-practical navy skirt and cream silk blouse combination and greeting him with a firm handshake and direct eye contact, and made her intended no-nonsense first impression. As was his job, Harrison asked a lot of questions, which she did her best to answer clearly and directly, before finally giving a grudging "while I can't say I condone private citizens taking the law into their own hands, in this instance I'm willing to concede that it was a sound decision, and can only commend you for your actions," and sending her back out into the station, where she made a beeline for Jack's office. The way he looked up when she entered made her think that he'd been awaiting her appearance.

"How did it go with Harrison?"

"Ugh." She helped herself to whiskey, cocking an eyebrow at Jack to ask whether he wanted one.

He declined with a slight shake of his head. "Not while I'm working."

She shrugged and dropped into the seat opposite him. "Well, you're right that the man has no sense of humour, but he clearly knows his job." She grinned as she added, "he said he 'could only commend me for my actions'."

"Why did you ignore me that night?" She had been expecting the question for days, but not the gentle, almost rueful, tone in which it was delivered. Ready for a fight, she was caught off-balance by the absence of an attack and it took her a moment to compose herself.

"Because I'm reckless and headstrong, as you know very well by now," she replied, her tone tinged with regret. He thinned his lips in displeasure, but she went on. "And because I didn't trust Sanderson. I knew he was up to something as soon as he removed you from the case. If he'd really wanted it solved he would have left it with you, and to hell with the opinion of the Catholic church. And he was determined to get rid of me. You've said yourself I'm a bad influence – were you really so willing to defy orders before I came along?"

In spite of himself he smiled slightly at that. "No," he admitted wryly.

"So, Sanderson was up to something, and you were relying on him for backup. And the stakes were too high, Jack. Not only your life, but the lives of those poor girls as well. I couldn't just sit at home and sip tea and hope that it all turned out for the best." She sighed. "I know you don't like it when I refuse to let you protect me, but have you ever stopped to ask yourself what makes my life worth so much more than yours? I mean, I might not be as strong as you, but I'm certainly as capable, and at least as well-armed. So why do you insist on leaving me behind just when I could be most useful to you?"

He frowned at her across the desk. That wasn't something he'd ever really thought about before. "Because I'm a police officer," he began slowly. "And because you're a woman, and I suppose I was raised to think that counts for something. And because -" he glanced at the door, which was standing slightly ajar and continued in a lower voice "- as we discussed last night, I happen to be in love with you." He thought for a moment as she sipped her whiskey, her eyes roving around his office. "But you're right. Having you with me never seems to be as dangerous as trying to leave you behind. For either of us." He narrowed his eyes at her. "I will make a deal with you, Miss Phryne Fisher. I will stop saying 'no' automatically, if you will agree to actually listen to me when I _do_ say no."

She narrowed her eyes in return, considering. "Is 'listening' the same thing as doing as I'm told?"

"Yes."

"Then no deal." She folded her arms, and he sighed in frustration.

"Why must you always cross every line that's put in front of you? It's as though you can't encounter a rule without immediately endeavouring to break it."

"Because the rules are never in my favour. I learned that before I was five years old. If I played by the rules, I'd spend my entire life under everyone else's thumb, and I'd be miserable. Or dead." She closed her eyes suddenly, and continued in a smaller voice. "Please, Jack. The rules are _never_ in my favour."

"Phryne." He walked around the desk and stood in front of her, gently unfolding her arms and taking her hands in his before pulling slightly so that the swivel mechanism in the chair brought her around to face him. "I'm on your side, love. Please believe that. I _am_ on your side."

She opened her eyes and looked up at him, and he was shocked to see the glimmer of tears. "Then don't ask me to stop being who I am."

He sighed and nodded. "Alright. Alright. But, on the basis that I _am_ a police officer, would you at least be willing to consider abiding by the law?"

She thought for a moment, then pouted artfully at him. "But some of my best evidence-"

"- would be inadmissible in any court that knew how you'd obtained it. And those laws are there to protect you as well. I don't recall you being particularly pleased by incursions into your own home."

"Speaking of my own home..." and there was something in her tone of voice that told him that the subject was being very firmly changed. Never mind. As he had begun to realise the night before, Phryne often did come around when she was given time to think rather than being pushed. That was something he needed to remember.

"Yes?"

"I'm having a few people over for dinner tomorrow night. A rather bohemian set, if I'm honest, but you'd be more than welcome to join us?"

The thought of a 'bohemian set' didn't exactly sound appealing to him, but dinner with Phryne certainly did, especially in comparison to trying to choke down another of Rosie's excellent meals whilst she glowered at him across the table or made pointed remarks about 'That Woman'. "I'd be delighted," he told her.

...

His previously withdrawn former wife found her voice with a vengeance the following evening when it became obvious that he had returned home only long enough to shave and change for Phryne's dinner party, and the shouting that ensued made him long wistfully for the preceding sullen silence.

"Do you really think Phryne Fisher had anything to do with the end of our marriage?" he snapped finally, when she paused to draw breath. "You were the one who left. You were the one who asked for a divorce. So why are you suddenly so concerned over the amount of time I choose to spend in her company?"

"Because she's bad news! For God's sake, Jack, even _I_ know what sort of a reputation That Woman has. Do you really think you can have any kind of a future with someone like that?"

"As opposed to the future I could have with you?" He shrugged on his coat, picked up his hat, and headed for the door. "My relationship with Phryne Fisher is none of your business."

He shut the door on her scream of rage.

...

The gramophone was playing and the drinks were flowing when Mr. Butler showed him into Phryne's parlour. Of all the guests the only one he recognised was Dr. Macmillan, standing by the piano in conversation with a man with what could only be described as 'flowing' locks and a shirt of magenta silk.

"Jack!" Phryne, resplendent in a gown of shimmering emerald green with detailing in black lace, left the man she was talking to and crossed the room to greet him. She glanced at his face and frowned slightly in concern, laying one hand on his arm. "Is everything alright?" she asked softly.

"Would you mind if I took you up on your offer of a spare room for the night?" he replied.

She nodded at once. "Of course. And I suppose you could do with a drink?"

"Most definitely."

Two hours later, with several more drinks and one of Mr. Butler's excellent cordon bleu meals in him, Jack was feeling significantly more relaxed. True, Phryne's guests were not the sort of people with whom he usually socialised, but it was a mark of Phryne's influence on his life that he was actually finding himself quite at ease in their company.

"What now, Phryne?" a woman in a spectacular flowing dress which seemed to encompass the entire colour spectrum as well as a few shades Jack was uncertain could be placed on it, sang out.

"Dancing!" a dark man with a foreign accent – Carlos? – replied. "Perhaps you will do me the honour of a tango, Phryne?"

To Jack's everlasting amazement she didn't answer immediately but instead cut her eyes to him. She wasn't asking permission, of course – Phryne Fisher did not ask a man's permission for anything – but the mere fact that she cared whether or not he was concerned by the thought of her dancing a tango with another man was both surprising and touching. He smiled slightly in reassurance and made a small gesture. If she wanted to dance it was hardly his place to try and stop her.

With a smile of her own she turned back to her Spaniard, and the opening bars of the tango rang out. He had never seen one danced before, and he stood quietly, and somewhat awkwardly, against the wall as the woman he loved danced passionately with a man he didn't know. The dance itself did not appeal to him. It was passionate, yes, but there was an edge of hostility, almost hatred, to it that he found repellent. Whatever else it was, it was not a loving dance, and he was suddenly glad that he had never had opportunity to learn it.

There was laughter and clapping when the music ended, and calls of 'encore!', but once again Phryne's eyes sought his. He smiled at her and walked over, taking a glass of champagne from the tray on the table as an excuse.

"Quite a dance," he commented, handing her the drink.

"Thank you."

Music flowed from the gramophone again, slower this time, a waltz, and she cocked her head at him. He knew what she wanted and smiled.

"May I have the pleasure?" he asked, offering her his hand. She passed her glass to Carlos without even glancing at him and took Jack's hand.

This was the first time they had ever danced together, but she flowed with him as naturally as if they had done it a thousand times before, and this was no tango. He had once described their relationship as a waltz, and she had responded by telling him that a good waltz was slow and close. By that measure, this was a very good waltz indeed, and it seemed as though everything – his worries and concerns, the other guests, even the floor beneath his feet – faded away as they moved seamlessly together. He supposed she was letting him lead, but it hardly felt that way. It felt as though they were simply moving together in the same direction, naturally, easily. The way they did when they were working together at their very best.

"I'll try," she murmured unexpectedly, from where her head rested against his shoulder, and he pulled back slightly to look at her blankly.

"Try?"

"To stop breaking the law. I do understand the problems it could cause for you."

It was a victory, but it didn't feel like one. He felt guilty, somehow, as though he had robbed her of something. But then, he thought, she had said 'try', not 'will'. He smiled slightly. Phryne Fisher, leaving herself a way out.


	4. Chapter 4

_Once again, thank you all to the lovely people who have taken the time to review this fic. DuskButterfly, let me know what you think of the Jack/Rosie scene in this chapter: we see so little of her character, and their relationship, that I found it difficult to write. I hope that I've succeeded in showing that these are not 'bad' people, just two good people who have been trapped in a bad situation for far too long. Britchick, points noted, but you are wrong: feel free to PM me if you'd like to hear my reasoning._

* * *

The guests drifted away gradually as the night wore on. The last to leave was Phryne's tango partner, who seemed puzzled by her subtle and not-so-subtle hints that he should go, and even more puzzled by the continued presence of the quiet, conservatively-dressed police inspector to whom her attention had repeatedly returned throughout the evening. Had he been a gambling man, Jack would have bet good money that the Spaniard was a former lover of Phryne's, but it was clearly evident that she had no intention of renewing the relationship.

When she had finally escorted Carlos out and shut the door behind him she returned to the parlour and leaned against the doorframe with an exaggerated sigh.

"I was beginning to think he'd never leave," she commented, then grinned at him. It was a cheerful, impish smile, he was relieved to note, without any of the seductive undertones which he would have expected to see make their appearance this late at night, particularly given that he had already requested permission to remain until morning. "Would you like a mug of cocoa before we find you a room?" she enquired, and he was momentarily taken aback. Was this really the same Phryne Fisher who had flirted and teased him mercilessly for much of the past two years? The woman who had once shown him a nude portrait of herself, then smirked knowingly at him while he beat a hasty retreat? The woman who had delighted in fan-dancing in a gentlemen's club, knowing full well that he was in the audience? The woman who had at various times slowly unknotted his tie whilst urging him to allow himself 'just one gaudy night', produced evidence from her cleavage, pressed his face to her bosom (granted, she had been undercover at the time, but she had been much slower to release him than was really necessary), and traded endless intimate Shakespearian quotes with him, all while his heart pounded and his mouth went dry with helpless, guilty want?

To all appearances this was the same woman, but Jack was starting to wonder. Realising he had been staring at her in silence for far too long he recalled himself to the present moment, grateful when he managed to dredge up the memory of what it was she had actually asked him. "Cocoa would be lovely, thank you."

She left him in the parlour while she headed to the kitchen. She had waved Mr. Butler off to his room at some point while the party was winding down, and Jack was suddenly very aware that, as was so often the case, they would be the only two people awake in her house. He cast around for something to occupy himself with while he waited for her to return, and his eyes lit on the piano. He didn't often have the opportunity to play, and he considered for a moment. It was a large house, and if he played softly he doubted he would disturb anyone – at least, no more than the party would have. And Phryne seemed to enjoy hearing him play...

...

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Phryne closed the door and leaned against it. She needed time to think. Jack Robinson. In her house. For the night. With any other man, she would have had no doubt what he intended, but Jack wasn't any other man. From the look on his face when he had arrived, asking her for a place to stay was an act born of desperation, not desire, and for the first time she found herself feeling an active dislike towards Rosie. The woman was Jack's ex-wife and a rival for his affections, and Phryne had certainly felt pangs of jealousy in the past, particularly since she had abruptly resurfaced in Jack's life, but this was different. Whatever Rosie had said or done earlier that evening, it was enough to make Jack violate his own unwritten moral code and put himself in the potentially compromising position of accepting her hospitality for the night. At that moment, there were two things of which Phryne Fisher was absolutely certain. One was that Rosie Sanderson did not deserve Jack Robinson. The other was that Jack Robinson would be sleeping alone tonight and would leave her house in the morning with his conscience unmarred. Even if doing so left Phryne weeping with frustration.

With that firmly settled in her mind, she turned her attention towards fixing the cocoa.

...

Jack was picking out a tune on the piano when she returned, his fingers shifting idly between notes as though he couldn't quite settle on what to play. She stopped in the hallway to listen for a moment, then slipped in, cocoa in hand, hoping that he wouldn't stop straight away. She had been forced to learn the piano at finishing school, but had never had any great love for it. Listening, however, and singing, were another story. Jack caught her eye and, perhaps remembering that she liked to hear him play, segued into a song that she did recognise, an Irving Berlin tune from a few years earlier.

"Everything went wrong,  
And the whole day long  
I'd feel so blue  
For the longest while.  
I'd forget to smile  
Then I met you."

He held her gaze as he sang, and she had no doubt that the words were meant for her, and her alone. His marriage must have already been falling apart when he learned this song, and she wondered whether that was part of the reason that he had chosen it. Not that it mattered a whit to her. Setting the cocoa on top of the piano she went to sit beside him, joining her voice to his.

"I'll be loving you always  
With a love that's true always.  
When the things that you've planned  
Need a helping hand  
I will understand  
Always."

Together they sang until, gazing into one another's eyes, they reached the final line.

"Not just for an hour,  
Not just for a day,  
Not just for a year,  
But always."

Leaning forward, hands still on the keys, Jack kissed her gently. "Always," he repeated in a whisper.

"Always," she agreed, resting her head on his shoulder. It was more than just an idle word for her. It was a promise, almost a vow, of what she felt for this dear, quiet, hurting man. Yes, she thought resignedly, she might very well be weeping before the morning.

...

Some hours later Jack found himself regarding Phryne over the breakfast table. She was skimming the paper as she ate, reading out highlights of the latest reports on the Fletcher case. In spite of Sanderson's predictions about their lack of credibility, it was clear that public sympathy was firmly on the side of the innocent young girls. It helped, Phryne remarked tartly, that they had all been virtuous, but, regardless, people were clearly horrified by the fact that a (now former) police commissioner could have any part in such heinous crimes. Jack simply nodded, not really listening. If he was honest with himself, he was sick of the case, and sick of the impact it was having on his life. When his mood was sombre enough that it could cause the irrepressible Phryne Fisher to forsake her usual carefree ways in order to offer him a shoulder to cry on and a bed-not-her-own to sleep in, it was time to do something about lightening it.

"Come out with me tomorrow," he said suddenly, interrupting her in the middle of a scathing summary of the Catholic church's most recent defence of the practices of the Magdalene Laundries.

That earned him a sudden, surprised smile. "Out? Where?"

He thought for a moment, but really there was no contest. "Luna Park," he told her. It was silly, a ridiculous notion, a date for adolescent sweethearts, not a grown man and the woman who was perilously close to becoming his lover, but it was also, he knew, exactly what they both needed. As he had known it would, her face lit up at the prospect.

"That sounds wonderful. What time should I expect you?"

He shrugged. With nothing else to do with his day off except 'avoid Rosie', it would have suited him to start at six in the morning and stay at the Park until ten at night, but he doubted that would suit Phryne. "Name a time."

"Ten," she answered promptly. "And we can have lunch."

...

He arrived home to find his ex-wife packing.

"Rosie?" He glanced from her face to the carpet bag in her hand and back again. "What are you doing?"

She gave him a look full of anger and disdain and turned away, heading back towards her (his, their, whatever) bedroom. "What does it look like I'm doing, Jack?" she demanded when he followed her.

He sighed in frustration. He didn't remember her being this melodramatic when they were married. "Well, I suppose it makes a change from leaving a note on the kitchen table." It had been damned unsettling, actually, arriving home of an evening wondering whether his wife would still be there or not, and he had come to dread the sight of a single white sheet of paper lying in the middle of that table next to a cloth-covered plate of whatever she had decided to leave him for dinner.

"Well I wasn't expecting you home so soon. I thought you and That Woman would still be in bed together."

"I apologise for the inconvenience." He turned towards the spare room, meaning to change out of last night's clothes and at the same time avoid what was rapidly escalating into a full-blown row.

"Oh, for God's sake Jack, why can't you just react like a normal man for once, instead of walking away?"

That was too much, and he stalked back to her. "And how would you like me to react, Rosie? Would you like me to yell at you? Demand that you stay? Threaten to drag you back here by your hair? I had my fill of conflict in the War; the last thing I ever wanted was to face it here at home. I know I came back different, and God knows I'd undo it if I could, but I can't. And you've never accepted that, have you? You've never been willing to accept that the man – the _boy_ – you married isn't coming back. Do you want to know what it is that I love about Phryne Fisher, more than anything else? It's that she knows who I _am_, not who I was, and she wants me anyway. And that's more than I can say for you. You want to know why I can't react like a normal man, Rosie? It's because it's all I can do not to be the cold-blooded killer the War tried to turn me into. Because right now part of me is angry enough to strike you, and no matter how much I may have changed that's not something I'd ever want to do. So you will let me walk away, and you will leave this house, and you will accept that the damage that's been done is not something that can ever be undone."

He stopped suddenly, panting slightly. In the decade of turmoil that had been their marriage almost since the day he returned from France, his preferred reaction whenever 'disagreement' threatened to become 'fight' had always been to walk away. He knew how dark a stain the War had left on his soul, and he'd be damned if he'd ever risk coming within a thousand miles of unleashing that darkness against anyone, least of all his own wife. Rosie's eyes were wide, her mouth open but soundless. After a moment she collected herself and spoke in a much quieter voice. "My friend Ivy has offered me a job helping run her boarding house in Bundaberg. I'll leave you the details, in case you need to get in contact."

He nodded sharply. "I'll make sure I wire you some money after the house has been sold."

This time when he walked away she didn't try to stop him.


	5. Chapter 5

_Luna Park: Apart from the Great Scenic Railway, I have no idea what attractions Luna Park did and did not offer c.1929, so there's a certain amount of poetic licence involved here. If anyone else can cast light on the question, please don't hesitate to get in touch (but bear in mind that I'll likely hit you up with many subsequent questions on the subject of historical Melbourne)._

_Also, please note that the rating will be changing from the next chapter, as violence and crime intrude into our story._

* * *

When he greeted Phryne on her doorstep the next morning he didn't say anything, just swept her up into his arms and pressed his face into the curve of her neck, breathing in the sweet scent of her skin and perfume. He felt her twine her arms about his neck, and for a moment they just stood there, holding each other.

"Jack?" she pulled back slightly, and he was pained to see that her expression was once again concerned. "Is everything alright?"

"Rosie left, yesterday," he replied. "She's moved to Bundaberg, apparently, to stay with a friend."

"Oh, Jack." Now her expression was even more concerned, and he felt guilty. He had never known Phryne to be as upset as this for as long as this, and the fact that it was all his fault was almost unbearable. "If you'd rather not go to the Park-" she began, but he cut her off.

"Luna Park is exactly where I want to go, Phryne, and I want to go there with you. And I want to laugh, and smile, and ride the Great Scenic Railway, and eat candyfloss, and spend a thoroughly enjoyable day in your company. And I do _not_ want to think about Rosie, or George, or the Pandarus, or anything else connected with this whole miserable affair. The only affairs I want to think about today are affairs of the heart."

She had begun smiling about half-way through his little tirade, and when he had finished she leaned up and kissed him soundly. "Then what are we waiting for?" she asked, and took his hand to lead him to her car.

...

He was surprised by her driving, which was almost sedate. He didn't dare crane over to look at the speedometer, but if he had to guess he'd say she was exceeding the speed limit by no more than a few miles per hour. Evidently she was taking her promise to 'try' and be more law-abiding seriously.

They walked into Luna Park arm-in-arm, smiles beginning to curve their lips as they mingled with the crowds of young couples and families with children. They had no luck at the hoopla – and walked away quietly agreeing that the game was rigged – but Jack's youthful cricketing experience came in handy, and he won them a coconut at the shys. They rode the Great Scenic Railway, then munched on the promised candyfloss as they wandered back towards the stalls. They were by now leaning into one another and laughing gaily, as carefree as any sweethearts, older than most perhaps, but no less happy for that. The sharp crack of air rifles at the shooting gallery drew their attention.

"Win a prize for the Missus?" one of the barkers called to Jack, and he cocked his head at Phryne. She shrugged.

"Whilst I don't require any proof of your marksmanship, I'm sure Dot would be able to find a good home for a stuffed toy or two."

"Or you could win one of your own?"

She threw him a coy glance. "Wouldn't that be an affront to your manly dignity?"

He leaned closer to her and grinned knowingly. "Now, when has that ever stopped you before?"

He nodded to the barker and accepted the proffered rifle. His first shot hit three inches to the right of the target, and he frowned. He was certain his aim hadn't been off.

"Nevermind, mate, two'll still win you a prize."

He tried again, but was out by the same margin. He exchanged a puzzled look with Phryne, then examined the gun more closely. Was he imagining it, or was the barrel skewed very slightly? He thinned his lips. Three inches. Carefully he adjusted his aim, and this time hit the bull's-eye. Phryne squealed and clapped with glee, so that for a moment he could almost forget that she was every bit as good a shot as he was.

"Not bad, not bad," the barker conceded, as he handed over a very small stuffed toy teddy-bear. "Another try, perhaps?"

"Perhaps the lady would like to try her luck?" he suggested, smiling at Phryne. The barker raised an eyebrow and elbowed his mate, and both men sniggered. Jack suppressed a smug grin of his own. He would enjoy watching her wipe the smirks off their faces.

The barker accepted payment, reloaded the rifle, and handed it back to Jack, still grinning. "Now, you just listen to your husband, sweetheart; he'll show you what to do."

She raised an eyebrow at this, and Jack could see that she was trying to hide her own smirk. Under the guise of assisting her with her stance and aim he murmured in her ear, "it pulls to the right by three inches; you'll need to compensate accordingly."

She leaned into him and kissed his cheek. "Thank you for the advice," she replied softly.

Her first shot wiped the smiles off the barkers' faces. Her second shot made them goggle. Her third drew a muttered "bloody oath," from one of them.

"Oh, look at that," Phryne said, with exaggerated surprise. "I do believe I've won." She proffered the air rifle, and accepted a positively enormous bear in return. She glanced at Jack's face as she did so, abruptly hoping that she hadn't dented his male pride, but he was grinning proudly, clearly pleased to see her put the barkers in their place, particularly after his own humiliation at their hands.

...

"Come in for a drink?" Phryne asked, when they arrived back at her residence later that afternoon. Filled with sunshine and good spirits, and reluctant for the day to end, he readily agreed. They set the two teddies down on an armchair and went to sit in the window-seat. Mr. Butler brought them both cocktails, and accepted Jack's coconut without so much as a raised eyebrow before withdrawing to prepare dinner.

When she finally saw him out some hours later, he drew her into his arms once again. It had been a wonderful day, a blessed reprieve from the stresses of the preceding week. For one glorious day they truly had been as happy and carefree as a couple of adolescents in the bright blush of first love, and neither of them were eager to return to the world of adult concerns and responsibilities that awaited them. And so they pressed close to one another and kissed, first tenderly, then passionately, for far longer than any pair of adolescents would have been permitted to carry on, at least in a venue as public as the girl's doorstep. At last, however, he drew away.

"I should be going."

Phryne nodded, stroking her fingers down his chest, reluctance screaming from every line of her body. "Of course."

He sighed, trying to think of how best to broach the subject of physical intimacy. With all that had happened, with Rosie only just gone from his house, he had been too preoccupied with his own affairs to give her the attention she truly deserved – and, he knew, desired. "Phryne, I-"

She shook her head slightly. "I understand."

He sighed, frustrated with his own inability to articulate his feelings. He stroked her cheek, and leaned his forehead against hers. "You know I love you, don't you?"

She nodded. "And I love you too. And you don't need to apologise, or explain yourself. I... can wait."

"You've been waiting a long while."

She kissed him tenderly. "Then what's a few more days?"

He returned the kiss with interest. "Thank you," he murmured, as he drew away.

He held her hand until they were too far apart to maintain their grip on one another, then turned away to walk slowly down the path to the gate. He turned back as he reached it, casting one last look in her direction. With a sudden cry she flung herself off the steps, down the path, and into his arms. She kissed him again, almost desperately, before pulling away far enough to look at him. "Don't make me wait forever, Jack."

"Never."


	6. Chapter 6

_Please note the rating change from this chapter, not for sex, but for violence._

* * *

South Melbourne's peaceful murderless spell was broken in particularly awful fashion later that night, and the next morning Jack found himself standing in a comfortable house on a quiet, leafy street, wondering what evil could drive a man to murder his wife and children.

"Sir!" Collins' urgent voice pulled him from his grim contemplation of the younger of the two children, a girl of about six, killed with a single shot while she cowered beneath the covers of her bed, still clutching her dolly. It had been a long time since a crime-scene had been bad enough to make him throw up, but today he had to fight the urge to add to the growing puddle of vomit by the gate-post.

"What is it, Collins?"

"Miss Fisher's just arrived."

Phryne! No, he could not have her viewing this scene, not after what had happened to her own sister. Given her determined ability to live in the present moment, he doubted she still remembered the broken sobs that had wracked her body the day she'd collapsed by Janey's grave, but he knew he would never forget them. Abandoning the child – he _would_ obtain justice for her and her family, but that would not be served simply by staring at her corpse and willing it – he hastened from the house, intercepting his sweetheart on the path.

"No." he said firmly, placing both hands on her upper arms to halt her progress.

"Jack, we talked about this."

"There are some things you don't need to see."

"Oh, for God's sake. I went to war too, you know. What exactly do you think you're protecting me from?"

"He killed his kids."

That stopped her, and she blinked at him. "Oh God. I never thought..."

"What's your connection to this case?"

"She thought her husband was having an affair. She engaged me to find out." She shrugged. "You'd be surprised how many cases like that I handle."

"And was he?"

"Mmm. And I managed to snap several thoroughly incriminating photographs." She sighed. "She wanted evidence of adultery for the divorce. It might have meant the difference between keeping the children and losing them."

He nodded as her words answered the question of motive. "Evidently, he was determined not to let her have them." He sighed, considering. "Five minutes, and I'll be escorting you the whole time. And I want everything you have on the case in return."

She nodded. "I'd have given it to you anyway."

Except under the influence of Murdoch Foyle's foul potion, he had never yet seen her swoon, but nonetheless he stayed close to her as he escorted her through the scene. After confirming the identity of the victim she insisted on seeing the entire house, noting, as he had not, the wedding photo turned face-down on the mantle-piece, and the mark on the kitchen wall where something had been thrown at someone in the not-too-distant past and sat long enough to stain before the mess was wiped up. Finally he took her to see the children, first the boy, and then the girl. She went very quiet at that point until, after spending some moments staring silently at the girl, a sudden exclamation of "bastard!" exploded from her lips. She turned to him, eyes glittering dangerously.

"I'll meet you back at the station with everything I have on the Morgans. And I'm afraid I'm likely to exceed the speed limit."

He nodded once and, to her surprise and his own, pressed a hasty kiss to her lips. "I'll be waiting," he replied.

...

Phryne's files confirmed not only that Alfred Morgan was having an affair, which his wife knew about, but also that his wife was, in return, seeking a divorce and determined to win custody of the children. She had also noted that Morgan worked in the Harbourmaster's office at the docks, from which she had followed him several times, and it didn't take a great deal of deduction to realise that if the man had any sense whatsoever he would already be stowed away on the next ship scheduled to leave port. A quick phone-call confirmed that the only vessel due to sail on the afternoon tide was an Indonesian vessel bound for home. Phryne had collected her revolver at the same time as the files, and after a few more phone-calls Jack and Hugh checked out weapons of their own before Hugh drove all three of them to the docks. Six armed officers met them there, already keeping watch over the entire legitimate crew of the ship. Nearby, an ambulance was waiting just in case, although everybody hoped that it wouldn't be needed.

"Are you going to tell me to wait here?" Phryne asked Jack, as Collins pulled up alongside the men.

"Would it make any difference if I did?" And then, before she could answer, "just stay close to me, and promise not to go haring off on your own." A glance at Collins, who was already clambering from the vehicle, and he continued in a lower voice, "I don't think I could stand it if anything were to happen to you right now."

She smiled briefly and nodded acceptance of his conditions before they joined the men.

"Braithwaite, stay with Merriweather and keep an eye on the crew. Collins, you're with Jones. Abbott, with Lewis, and I want Brown watching the gangplank. Search her thoroughly from bow to stern. Check every space you even think a man could conceal himself, and remember Morgan is armed and dangerous."

They fanned out as they reached the deck, Collins and Jones heading forward, Abbott and Lewis aft. Jack and Phryne made their cautious way towards the main hatch. Phryne pulled it open, and Jack ducked around first, anxiously searching the gloom for any sign of their killer. All was silent and, guns in hand, the two cautiously headed below. For a long time there was nothing to be seen or heard except the creaking of the ship and occasional distant sounds from the shore. They searched thoroughly, until a noise from a section of the hold below them caused them both to freeze and exchange glances. That had not been a creak, but the furtive sound of someone trying to move quietly.

"One of the men?" Phryne asked softly, and Jack shook his head.

"I don't think so."

Cautiously, they edged out together onto a walkway above the main deck of the hold. There was another sound, and this time when they looked towards it they caught a quick flash of movement between some crates. They exchanged another look, and a nod, and Jack leaned over to whisper softly into Phryne's ear.

"You stay up here. I'll go around and try to flush him out."

She nodded. From her vantage point she had cover from a nearby beam, and would have a clean line on Morgan as soon as he emerged into the open. If he heeded her call to surrender and dropped his weapon, she could hold him at gunpoint until Jack could make the arrest. If not, either Jack could take him down while he was preoccupied with her, or she could shoot Morgan. Jack slipped away, and she focussed her attention on the patch of crates in which they thought Morgan was hiding.

For some reason, shock would not cushion Jack's mind from memory, and afterwards he would recall every moment of what came next with aching clarity.

_He slipped away from Phryne and down the stairs leading onto the deck below. As he reached it, he deliberately made his tread heavier, no longer trying to conceal his whereabouts. "Alfred Morgan? We know you're in here. Come out with your hands up!"_

_He heard Phryne's cry of warning, and his body reacted before his mind had even processed her words, diving to the side, seeking cover behind some crates. Somehow, Morgan had managed to move without either of them seeing, and Jack felt a blow to his side an instant before he heard the gunshot. By the time he crashed to the deck, he already knew he'd been shot. He heard Phryne shout again, and another shot, this time from her position above. He heard a man's cry of pain, and swearing, then the pounding of heavy feet approaching in police boots, and a lighter, swifter tread before Phryne dropped to her knees beside him._

"_Oh, Jack."_

_He forced his eyes to focus in time to see her tearing the scarf from her neck, and tried to protest. Her beautiful scarf would be ruined by his blood. She ignored him and pressed the scarf to his wound, raising his body slightly in a way that drew a cry of agony from his lips in order to apply pressure to the exit wound as well. He felt blackness tugging at him, and was afraid. If he gave in to it, would he ever awaken?_

"_Jack, Jack..." Phryne was crying, and he managed to reach up one hand to cup her cheek._

"_Phryne..."_

_He saw her glance away over his head. "Forget Morgan; get those ambulance officers up here!" And then, almost a sob, "Jack's been shot!"_

_She returned her attention to him, whispering his name over and over again as she kept pressure on his wound._

"_Phryne," he gasped out. "Phryne, I'm sorry. So sorry I made you wait so long."_

"_Shush," she hushed him, tears in her eyes. "You can make it up to me later, Jack, I promise. Just stay with me. Don't leave me Jack, please, please..."_

_The ambulance officers barged in then, and Phryne was displaced as they swiftly assessed his wound and lifted him onto the stretcher. The world seemed to sway around him as they carried him from the ship to the ambulance, and he had one last glimpse of Phryne's frightened, pale face before the ambulance doors closed and they sped towards the hospital. By the time they arrived, he was unconscious._


	7. Chapter 7

_Thank you as always to all the lovely people who have taken the time to review this fic. Here's a nice speedy update for you to say thanks._

_Jack's family? I'm inventing wildly. We know he has to have parents, but the rest is pure imagination._

_1929. No blood transfusions. No IV fluids. No penicillin. At least, not according to Wikipedia, which indicates that all these medical wonders were still very much in the developmental stages. They could pump you full of morphine (or heroin) but other than that once they stopped the bleeding, you were pretty much on your own. _

* * *

She had seen men shot before. Her hands had been stained with blood before. She had watch lives ebb away, knowing that there was nothing she could do to stop it. But she had never felt anything like this. The thought of losing Jack, of losing him _now_, after all they had been through, was, to borrow his words, unbearable. She trailed unheeded after the stretcher bearers until she was left standing alone and bereft on the docks, staring after the departing ambulance. She felt a tentative touch on her arm, and jumped slightly.

"Miss?" Dear Hugh, his own face white with shock, had come up alongside her. "I'll take you to him, if you want. I don't reckon they'll need us here now."

"Yes. Thank you, Hugh." A small corner of her mind was ashamed of the weakness in her voice, but it barely registered, drowned out by the single anguished cry of her heart and soul: _"Jack!"_

The journey in the car seemed to pass in a dream, and their arrival at the hospital was no different. Anxious attendants flocked around them until Hugh managed to explain that the blood wasn't hers. It was only at this point that she noticed the state she was in, and came as close to fainting as she had since her first days in France. With bloody hands she fumbled desperately to undo bloody clothes, fighting panic and nausea until a kindly nurse led her away to wash and change and await the clean clothing that Hugh had telephoned Dot to request, but finally she was clean again. After that, there was nothing left to do but wait.

After what seemed like an endless age of anxiety and confusion she was escorted into the room where Jack lay, still and quiet, in a hospital bed. His wound had been cleaned, stitched and bandaged. His own clothing had been removed, and he had been dressed in a white hospital gown. The bleeding had been stopped, but it might not be enough. If he had lost too much blood, the resulting shock might still kill him. If the wound became infected, it might still kill him. If, when he regained consciousness, an injudicious movement on his part caused the wound to reopen and haemorrhage, it might still kill him. She pulled a chair over to his bed and took his hand in hers. If he died while she was not at his side, it might just kill her.

She was shaken from her introspection by the arrival in the room of an older couple, escorted by a nurse. She'd never met them before, but she didn't need to see the couple's faces, or their expressions, to know who they were. She stumbled to her feet, and stepped away from the bed slightly.

"Mr. and Mrs. Robinson."

"You must be Miss Fisher." The woman's voice was choked, breathy with emotion, and she barely shifted her gaze from her son, but she held out her hand nonetheless. "Jack's told us so much about you."

Somehow, it had never occurred to her that Jack might have bothered mention her to his parents at all, let alone that he might have spoken of her at length, and she was momentarily taken aback. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you," she said eventually, and the woman nodded acknowledgement before letting go of her hand and going to sit by the bed. Her husband nodded to Phryne and went to stand at his wife's side, one hand on her shoulder. As Phryne had done, Mrs. Robinson took Jack's hand in hers.

"I'm here, son," she said softly. "Mama's here. Your dad too." She glanced over at Phryne. "And your Miss Fisher. You need to wake up so you can introduce us properly." She sobbed then, briefly, and raised his hand to her lips. "Wake up, son. Please wake up." Phryne moved over to the wall by the window, not wanting to intrude but not willing to leave either, and for a long time they remained like that, a silent tableau of sorrow.

"We lost his brother in the War." She hadn't even noticed Mr. Robinson coming over to stand next to her, his eyes still on his son. "I can still remember the day we got the letter. I can't tell you how grateful we were when Jack came home, but... he was different. Has been, ever since."

She nodded. "The War changed all of us."

"Yes, he mentioned once that you were there."

She nodded absently. "I joined a women's ambulance brigade in 1917. The things I saw were bad enough. The men..." she trailed off, shaking her head.

"He was wounded, several times," Mr. Robinson commented. "He wrote to us about the nurses. Your compassion, your courage. Thank you, for what you did."

"I never nursed Jack." She managed a slight smile, recalling one of the many nights they had sat talking together, the painful passage of their words eased by a few glasses of good, smooth whiskey. "We talked about it once, as much as people do. We were never posted anywhere near one another."

"But still, he talked to you. That's more than he's been willing to do with any of us." He paused for a moment. "You've been good for him, Miss Fisher, in a way that wife of his never was."

Phryne was still trying to frame a response to this when they were interrupted by the arrival of a nurse. "Visiting hours are over," she informed them. "You're welcome to come back tomorrow."

Mr. and Mrs. Robinson nodded, and Mr. Robinson stepped back over to his wife and son. Mrs. Robinson stood, and brushed Jack's hair back tenderly from his face before laying a kiss on his forehead. "Sleep well, son. Sleep's the best thing for you. I'll come back tomorrow, I promise."

"You'll get through this, son." Mr. Robinson laid a hand on Jack's shoulder. "You made it through the War; you can make it through this. You're a fighter, boy; always have been. So don't you stop fighting now."

The Robinsons left, and the nurse turned her attention to Phryne, who had been trying to escape notice by standing very still near the wall. "You too."

Phryne folded her arms and jutted her jaw. "I'm not leaving," she informed the woman simply.

"I'm sorry, Miss, but you can't stay."

Phryne said nothing, just stalked back over to the chair by the bed and sat in it, daring the nurse with her eyes to do something about it.

"Do I need to call a porter to escort you out?"

"Go right ahead. But I'm not going anywhere." Outwardly she wore a mask of icy imperiousness. Inwardly, her heart was pounding in fear and desperation. She knew she was, as Jack might put it, 'making a fuss', but she couldn't bear the thought of leaving him alone right now, and so she had no intention of doing so. The nurse pursed her lips and left, presumably in search of a porter, and Phryne gave a small gasp of relief at the moment of respite and leaned towards Jack, taking his hand once again. "I won't leave you alone, Jack, I swear. They'll have to drag me out kicking and screaming before I'll leave you. And even then I'll climb back in through the window."

Voices in the corridor, and the nurse returned with a large male attendant.

"Now then, Miss, visiting hours are over, and Nurse says you'll have to leave." She folded her arms and glared at him, and the man sighed and stepped towards her. "Please, Miss, I don't want to hurt you."

She raised an eyebrow at that and raked him with a disdainful gaze. "If I were you, young man, I'd be more worried about whether or not I might hurt you."

The porter scowled at the threat and reached down for her arm. She allowed herself to be dragged to her feet and turned towards the door, making sure she was a few steps away from the bed, and any danger of harming Jack, before she made her next move. Clasping her hands, she drove her elbow back into the porter's stomach with all the force she could muster, then, as he doubled over, brought the heel of her shoe down on his instep. Ignoring his cry of pain, and the shocked look on the nurse's face, she resumed her place by Jack's bed.

"I've a good mind to call the police!" the nurse snapped angrily.

That could be a problem, Phryne thought, but still she folded her arms. Jack would likely not approve of any of this, but she would happily listen to every word he had to say on the subject if he would only wake up and utter them. "Go ahead."

"That won't be necessary, Nurse," a familiar voice drawled from the doorway. "The Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher here was a nurse herself, during the War, and I'm happy for her to remain here as Inspector Robinson's personal attendant until such time as he regains consciousness."

The nurse had straightened to attention at the arrival of Doctor Macmillan, whilst the porter, still doubled over in pain, had tried to. "Yes, Doctor." She and the porter hurried from the room while Phryne gave her old friend a wan smile.

"Thank you."

"Rank hath its privileges. And I'm firmly of the opinion that the unconscious retain at least some awareness of what's going on around them. I doubt hearing you being escorted away in handcuffs would do the Inspector's heart rate any good at all."

That was something she hadn't thought of, and she swallowed, filled with remorse. "Do you think hearing all that will have upset him?"

In spite of herself, Mac smiled slightly. God, these two had it bad! And if what she had seen at the party the other night was anything to go by, they had finally realised it, as well. "I think you were a damn good nurse, and your instincts are spot on. He needs you, Phryne."

That drew the first of the sobs that had been building in the back of her throat since the moment she had seen Morgan emerge unexpectedly with his gun trained on Jack's back. "I can't bear to lose him, Mac. I love him so much..."

"Shush." Mac pulled her to her feet and into a warm and comforting embrace. "You won't lose him, sweetie. He's a fighter, or my name's not Elizabeth Macmillan."

...

Jack remained unconscious until the following evening, but at last awareness began to return. Pain, an insistent ache in his side that warned him to stay still unless he wanted more. Distant voices, indistinct. And then something that made him smile: a whiff of French perfume. He opened his eyes and turned his head.

"Phryne?"

It was barely a whisper, but it was enough to rouse her from her fitful doze, wrapped in a blanket Dot had found for her on her latest visit with food and clothing. Phryne had attended to the necessary and bathed, after a fashion, in the hospital's facilities but, true to her word, she had not otherwise left Jack's side.

"Jack?" She took his hand in both of hers, her eyes searching his face, meeting his puzzled, blurry gaze as she reassured herself that he really was awake and aware. After a moment she heaved an enormous sigh of relief. "Oh, Jack."

The sight of her face brought the memories back. "I was shot," he stated, and she nodded, laying a kiss on the back of his hand.

"You're in hospital. You're going to be just fine."

He smiled. "I know." His words were breathy, his dry throat and the rapidly worsening pain in his side making it hard to speak, but he had to get this out. "And then I'm going to make up for all the time we've lost."


	8. Chapter 8

_My sincere thanks once again for all your lovely reviews: I just love hearing from you. Rachelavache, yes, I would definitely expect this experience to have an ongoing (hopefully positive) effect on their relationship. WhatsABriard, I hope we'll see a bit more of Jack's family - I rather like them so far. Duskbutterfly, yes, it was scary realising just how many of the medicines and medical procedures that we take for granted now were still another few years away. So near and yet so far with the transfusions - the 1930s was when they became widely available (and no longer had a fifty-fifty chance of killing you), apparently._

_A note on Jack's recovery: I have no idea how long it takes to recover from a bullet wound to the side. I do, however, recall having my appendix removed at thirteen, and as that requires invasive abdominal surgery (or did at the time; I understand it's now routinely performed as keyhole surgery, with a much speedier recovery), I've based the timeframe for his recovery – four days in hospital including the day of admission, about a week resting at home, then six weeks of very limited activity until the wound had healed fully – on my recollections of that. Many thanks to Ethelfreda, who suggested that, given the time period, Jack would probably have been kept in hospital a while longer than I was. The chapter has been amended accordingly._

_Of course I wasn't going to kill him. What do you all take me for?_

* * *

Jack was a little unclear on how exactly Dr. Macmillan had come to be his attending physician, but he suspected the answer to that question was probably the stubborn, beautiful woman who had gently helped him to a much-needed drink of water before the doctor had dispatched her to 'wash your face and rake a comb through your hair while I examine the Inspector in peace.'

"You're a lucky man, Jack Robinson," she commented, after checking his wound, pulse and breathing. "Three inches to the right, and you would have been in serious trouble."

In spite of the pain, he gave a brief snort of laughter. "Three inches to the left, and he would have missed me completely."

"Such a cheerful disposition. It's no wonder Phryne loves you." A mental 'Aha!' followed this remark, as the Inspector didn't so much as bat an eyelid at the notion that Phryne was in love with him.

"Has she been here the whole time?"

"Mmm-hum." As she spoke, Mac was preparing a syringe of morphine. "Nurse tried to throw her out last night. She elbowed a porter in the stomach, then stamped on his foot, leaving him with some _lovely_ bruises. So they threatened to call the police. Well, you can imagine how well _that_ went down. Luckily, I'd received the news of your arrival and was on hand to step in." She glanced at his face, wondering how her account of Phryne's behaviour would be received. To her surprise and relief Jack's reaction was a smile that somehow managed to mingle amusement, affection and resignation with a not-inconsiderable measure of pride.

"That's my Phryne," he murmured, as the morphine entered his system and began easing him back into a restful, healing sleep. By the time Phryne returned a few minutes later, he was out cold.

"Right." Mac turned her attention to her friend. "He's conscious. Or at least, he was until the morphine kicked in. Which means you are officially out of here."

"But Mac-"

"Don't 'but Mac' me. I said you could stay until he regained consciousness, which he has. Now home, for a good meal, a hot bath, a stiff drink, and bed."

Phryne gave her a mutinous look, then sighed as relief at knowing that Jack would be alright chased out the fear that he would not and made room for exhaustion. "Just let me say goodbye."

Mac nodded and stepped aside, and Phryne went to bend over her love. Caressing his cheek with one hand, she laid her lips gently against his. Even in his drugged sleep, he stirred and smiled slightly in response. "Rest, Jack. I'll be back in the morning," she promised, her lips brushing his with every word. Then she straightened and allowed Mac to lead her from the room.

...

His parents were already there when she arrived the next morning, and the nurse looked very much as though she wanted to say something about allowing a third visitor into the room, but the knowledge that this woman seemed to have a free pass from a Doctor was enough to make her hold her peace. One did not contradict a doctor, not if one wanted to continue nursing. Jack smiled when he saw her, although these were hardly the circumstances under which he had imagined introducing his parents to Miss Phryne Fisher.

"Phryne Fisher, these are my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Robinson. Mum, dad, this is The Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher."

"Just 'Phryne' will do." She gave Jack a questioning glance. Had he told his parents about the two of them yet?

"We met, two days ago." Mrs. Robinson filled the gap in the conversation. "Miss Fisher was here when we arrived, and she's been at your side almost constantly ever since."

"You're lucky, son. She's quite a woman," Mr. Robinson added.

Jack looked from one to the other, then, with his parents sitting on his left, held out the hand on his injured right side to Phryne. With her own quick glance at his parents she crossed the room and took it.

"You should know that Phryne and I have grown very close of late," he began. To their surprise and relief his mother smiled, her eyes dancing with amusement.

"Given the way you've been going on about her for the past year or more, it's about time!"

Jack felt himself blushing slightly. "I do go on about her, don't I?"

His father patted his arm, clearly every bit as amused as his wife. "Just a bit, boy. Just a bit."

"Then I take it... you approve?" Phryne asked tentatively. She wasn't sure what she would do if they did not. Just from the little she had seen over the past two days she knew that Jack's parents loved him very much. Their good opinion would count for a lot with him. If they disapproved... well, she didn't want to think about that.

Husband and wife exchanged a glance. "Wholeheartedly," Mr. Robinson replied emphatically.

...

The rest of the day passed in something of a blur for Jack. Still weak from blood-loss, and with his head muzzy from the morphine that at least kept the pain at bay, he found it difficult to stay awake for long, and even harder to focus on what was going on around him when he did. One thing he did know was that he was never alone. Although his parents came and went in accordance with visiting hours and the normal demands of a busy couple's lives Phryne was, as usual, a law unto herself and remained with him constantly. For that, he was grateful. He hated being in hospital, hated feeling so weak, hated the effects of the morphine and, while he knew it was irrational to be afraid, was well aware that ultimately his feelings sprung from a deep-seated fear both of death and of his own helplessness. But he fell asleep to the soothing rhythms of Phryne's voice reading poetry from a book she had brought with her, and awakened to the smell of her perfume, and was reassured.

"What happened to Morgan?" he asked, during one of his more lucid spells.

Phryne raised an eyebrow. "He's under guard in another part of the hospital. They won't tell me where, exactly."

"You shot him?"

"Of course. Shoulder wound. Don't worry, he'll live to hang."

In his drugged state it took him a while to realise what she meant when she said they wouldn't tell her exactly where Morgan was. God, were they really that afraid of what she might do to the man? But then, he thought, knowing how protective Phryne was of the people she loved, had he died all bets about her behaviour would have been off. Yes, they had probably been wise to ensure that a grieving and vengeful Phryne Fisher would not know exactly where to locate the target of her wrath.

"Does Rosie know about this?" he asked, the next time he was capable of sustained thought.

Phryne glanced down. "I wasn't sure whether you'd want her notified. And since doing so would have meant searching your house for her contact details, I thought it better to wait until you woke up."

He nodded. "I'll write to her in due course. There's no need to worry her. She'd only feel compelled to come back down here, and I'm not sure I can face her company just now."

"Do you mind me being here?" There was a note of anxiety in her voice, and he realised with surprise that Phryne Fisher was feeling insecure and unsure of herself. He smiled softly.

"I love that you're here with me." He couldn't stifle a yawn then, though he tried, as it pulled dreadfully at his side, and she smiled in return.

"Go back to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."

He squeezed her hand slightly. "Good."

...

By the afternoon of the next day he was feeling much more himself. Still weak as water, but able to stay awake and focus on what was said to him without falling asleep mid-sentence. It was at this point that Dr. Macmillan decided to discuss where he would go when he was discharged.

"You'll be here for a week or so yet, but after that I'm not willing to send you home," she told him bluntly. "You'll need rest, good food, and someone to take care of you, and I know the way you bachelor types live."

He nodded and looked from Phryne to his parents, uncertain of what to say.

"You're welcome to come home with me," Phryne said at once. "It's not as if I don't have room for you, and between Dot, Mr. Butler, and myself, I'm sure we can see to it that you're well taken care of. But..." She trailed off, also looking at his parents.

The two elder Robinsons exchanged a smile that might almost have been conspiratorial, but the moment passed so quickly that neither Jack nor Phryne would ever be sure.

"Of course Miss Fisher is the best choice to look after you," Mrs. Robinson, who Phryne had already noticed was the talker of the two, said at once. "As she says, she has a household to help her, and there's her nursing experience to take into account as well. And you know I look after Hettie's little ones two mornings a week. The last thing you need is those two swarming all over you and banging pots and never giving you a moment's peace."

"Well..." still Jack hesitated. It wasn't that he _didn't_ want to go with Phryne, but he wasn't certain exactly what decency and propriety might have to say about choosing to recuperate with your wealthy lover (well, he amended, almost-lover) over your own flesh and blood.

"Would you give us a moment, ladies?" Mr. Robinson asked quietly, and Phryne and his wife exchanged a glance before leaving the room. Mac quickly busied herself with Jack's charts, wondering just exactly what Jack's father might have to say that he didn't want the women to hear. "Now, son," he began gently. "You know your mother and I love you, and you're always welcome in our home."

Jack nodded. "Of course."

"And you know if you do come home with us, your mother will do her very best for you." He paused, while Jack nodded again. "But she's not as young as she was, and Hettie's two run her ragged as it is. And you're a grown man now, not a little boy. What happens when I'm not there and you need someone to, for example, lean on for the necessary?"

It was a brilliant performance, Mac thought, positively masterful. Mrs. Robinson may have been grey-haired, but she was hardly in her dotage and gave every appearance of being a vigorous and youthful woman still in the prime of life. And she hadn't missed the glance the two had exchanged at the start of this little conversation. Poor Jack. Between these two and Phryne, he really didn't stand a chance.

"Well, if you think it's for the best... I wouldn't want to be a burden on mum, of course."

"Of course, son. I know that, and so does your mother, and God knows she'd never admit to any of this. You know what she's like. But I really do think it'd be for the best if you went with Miss Fisher."

"Well then," Mac cut in, before Jack could think of any more excuses to prevent him from doing exactly what they all knew he wanted to do. When it came to self-fulfilment versus self-denial he and Phryne really were at opposite ends of the spectrum. "That's settled then. We'll see how you do over the next few days, and all being well we'll have you settled at Phryne's before you know it."


	9. Chapter 9

A week later, with Phryne's help, Jack slowly and painfully dressed for the first time since he had been shot. Phryne's touch was gentle, tender, and just the faintest bit erotic. She knew, of course, that it would be a while before Jack would be in any position to fulfil his promise to make up for all their lost time, and the way she glided her hands over his skin, held his gaze, and let her fingers linger on his tie (which he could, of course, have knotted for himself, but her actions there were a deliberate reminder of other times) were a promise and a reassurance of her own: that she still loved him, still wanted him. That she would wait for him. When she had finished he took her hand and pressed it to his lips, holding her gaze as he did so.

"Thank you," he murmured against her skin.

She raised her other hand to touch his cheek. "You're most welcome."

It took a while to ease his body into the passenger's seat of the Hispano, but once he was finally positioned he was amazed by the way Phryne drove. She pulled away from the kerb so slowly and gently that he could barely discern any movement at all, and it soon became obvious that she was determined to transport him to her house as smoothly and gently as possible. Even if that meant crawling along at a pace barely faster than walking and holding up the rest of the traffic on the road. After a few moments of this he realised that he was going to have to say something, or the relatively short journey back to St. Kilda's might well take them the rest of the day and send half the population of Melbourne into a fury in the process.

"You do realise you can be ticketed for impeding the progress of traffic?" he asked, shooting her a teasing glance. For a moment she looked as though she were about to give him a serious answer – dammit, was this to be the future of their relationship? Him forever hurting, whether physically or mentally, and her forever troubled by his pain? – but then her lip quirked in a smile.

"Why, Inspector Robinson, are you asking me to drive _faster_?"

He felt himself smile in response. "I believe I am. And I hope the Devil and his angels enjoy ice-skating, because Hell must surely have frozen over."

She laughed at that, the delighted, carefree laughter that he hadn't heard since their outing to Luna Park, and he chuckled too, relieved. If he could still make her laugh like that, then perhaps he could have faith that their future together would not be one of unremitting misery and worry after all.

They reached her house, and he was touched to see not only Mr. Butler and Dot waiting to welcome him, but also Bert and Cec. The three of them would never be entirely at ease in one another's company, but the fact that the two red-raggers were there spoke volumes about how far their relationship had evolved under the influence of one Miss Phryne Fisher.

"Would you be good enough to help the Inspector up to his room please, Mr. Butler? I'm sure Dot and I can manage his things," Phryne said after she had parked the car and disembarked. Jack himself remained seated, knowing better than to attempt even the descent from vehicle right now without someone to help him. The last thing he intended to do was trigger a relapse and thus cause Phryne still more worry.

"Of course, Miss. Mr. and Mrs. Robinson have already dropped off some things from his house. I've put them in the green guest bedroom, just down the corridor from your own."

"Just perfect, Mr. Butler, thank you." It was the room Jack had used the night he had sought refuge in her house, just before Rosie had left for Bundaberg, and she knew it would be to his liking.

By the time Jack was seated on the side of the bed ready to change back into his pyjamas, he was both exhausted and thoroughly frustrated. This, he thought, really was the worst part of the recuperation process: when the mind had recovered from the shock of illness or injury, and the pain had receded far enough to be overlooked as long as one remained at rest, but the body was still too weak and pain-ridden to permit any form of sustained exertion. And with Phryne plainly taking her role as his attendant seriously, and Dr. Macmillan equally determined that nothing should happen to her best friend's (almost) lover, he foresaw many more days of enforced idleness ahead of him before he was permitted to return to even the most basic of activities. Not, he had to admit, that he was really interested in doing anything just now except lying back against the pillows and resting.

Standing in front of him, Phryne gently loosened his tie before turning her attention to the buttons on his jacket.

"These aren't exactly the circumstances under which I imagined you doing this for the first time," he commented.

She said nothing, just smiled and nudged his knees gently with her own, until he parted his legs far enough to allow her to stand between his thighs as her fingers continued to work on his jacket. He closed his eyes and swallowed as she tackled the lowest buttons, level with his belt buckle, although her nimble fingers kept the fabric away from his body rather than brushing in against him. Finished with his buttons, she reached up and pushed the jacket from his shoulders, leaning into his body to do so, her breasts almost exactly level with his eyes.

"Christ, Phryne," he breathed, the exclamation almost a prayer, although for what even he couldn't have said.

She smiled again and drew the jacket down and away before caressing his hair and pressing a kiss to his upturned lips. Her performance was repeated with his waistcoat, and then his shirt, but when her fingers moved down to rest lightly on his buckle, leaving him still in his singlet, he placed his hands gently over hers, stilling them.

"I think we'd better stop," he told her breathlessly.

She regarded him levelly for a moment. "Do you really want me to?"

He sighed. "God, no. But I don't know how I can bear for you to continue, knowing that there's nothing I can do about it just now."

She nodded her understanding. "Shoes and socks?" she suggested, drawing her fingers away slowly.

"Please," he nodded. "I have no idea how I'd bend down that far."

Her eyes still on his, she moved to crouch slowly in front of him, somehow keeping her body between his legs so that her head was leaning against his thigh as she watched her fingers on his shoelaces. He looked down at her there, her dark head perilously close to a position he had imagined only in some of his most erotic fantasies, and moaned.

"Please, Phryne." She looked up at him, head still against his thigh, and he cupped her jaw with his hand and shook his head slowly in frustration. Thumb tracing her lips, he murmured in distress "I can't..."

She nodded again, and moved away slightly. "I'm sorry, Jack."

"Don't be." She finished removing his shoes and socks and rose as slowly as she had crouched down. He could tell she was worrying again, and caught her hand. "Phryne." He said it sharply enough to make her look at him, meeting her eye with a gaze more intense than any she had ever seen him wear before. "I swear," he ground out, "if it weren't for this damned bullet wound I'd have my way with you on this bed right here and right now."

Her breath caught at that, making her breasts heave, which she supposed didn't help matters, but at the same time she felt herself relax and smile slightly. She hadn't meant to tease him, but she had spent so long resisting the urge to touch his body that when the opportunity had presented itself she had been unable to resist. "And who's to say I wouldn't be the one having my way with you?" she challenged, and felt his fingers tighten on hers.

"I will make a deal with you, Miss Phryne Fisher," he told her in a low voice. "When Dr. Macmillan pronounces me fit to return to... normal activities... I will let you do whatever you want with me, if you will allow me to do whatever I want with you in return."

She grinned wickedly at him. "Now that's one deal I'm willing to accept."


	10. Chapter 10

_Thank you once again to all the people who are still reading and reviewing this fic. For all the folks asking for smut, please do remember that Jack has been quite badly hurt. Also, I'm reluctant to up the rating, so any later smut I do write is likely to be quite tame, at least if it ends up in this fic. _

_WhatsABriard - Jack's mummy and daddy are likely to show up again in the next chapter. I like them, too._

* * *

Although he would never realise it consciously, the weeks following his injury were a time of profound healing for Jack on a much deeper level than the merely physical. After so long married to a woman who had repeatedly made it clear that she would rather be anywhere but with him, Phryne's obvious preference for, and pleasure in, his company provided a deep reassurance not only of the sincerity of her feelings for him, but also of his own inherent worth and desirability to her. Physically, their intimacies were limited not only by his injuries, but also by the public nature of his hospital bed and, once he had been transferred to her house, her desire to avoid causing him too much frustration. They held hands, kissed, and touched one another's hair and faces, but otherwise, by unspoken agreement, generally restrained themselves. Instead they sat together for hours, talking or reading aloud to one another, or playing endless games: draughts, backgammon, dominoes, and even cribbage and other card games, although he soon learned to keep these short because Phryne found most card-games dull, and a bored Phryne swiftly became a restless and mischief-making Phryne.

For Phryne, too, those weeks marked a lasting change in the way she measured and managed her relationships, not with men, but with one man in particular. Even since her disastrous affair with René Dubois in Paris a decade earlier she had been cautious in her matters of the heart, avoiding attachments of any depth or duration in favour of protecting herself from both physical harm and emotional hurt. Over the course of their friendship, Jack had somehow made his way behind the barriers that she had erected, systematically undermining them from within, and now their time together set about demolishing those walls and clearing away the rubble that was left behind. Unlike René – and, if she were honest, most of the men she had been intimate with in the past – Jack was not charming, but sincere. Where René had been cruel, both casually and deliberately, Jack was kind. And where René had been jealous and controlling, Jack was simply interested in her life; when he asked about her comings and goings, what she had done and whom she had seen, it was not in an effort to judge or condemn but rather because he was interested in her day and seeking a diversion from the boredom that consumed much of his.

He was surprised, and slightly ashamed, when he realised just how busy her life was. Deep down inside, a part of him had assumed that she passed much of her time in frivolous amusements, and that her detective work was merely a diversion for a woman whose life was otherwise both dull and empty. That, however, was far from the truth. Yes, Phryne enjoyed being fitted for dresses, lunching with friends, and being pampered at her salon, but she also had a genuine passion for justice that saw her engaged not only in a number of cases that might otherwise have gone unreported, or which related to wrongs that weren't technically illegal, but also in letter-writing campaigns, public meetings, charitable works, fundraising endeavours, and lunches, drinks, and dinners with people, usually men, who might be convinced to use their power and influence for public good.

"I'm sorry I've monopolised so much of your time," he told her on his second evening in her house, when she explained in a manner that somehow managed to be both apologetic and matter-of-fact that he would be on his own for part of the following day, as she had commitments to keep which really couldn't be put off any longer.

"Oh, nonsense; it's been a pleasure. But I imagine you'd appreciate some time to yourself before I manage to drive you completely up the wall."

He struggled to suppress a smile at that. As much as he was enjoying her attention, he had indeed been starting to think that it might be possible to have too much of a good thing, and that sooner or later her near-constant attendance would become cloying. "Even so, I have kept you from your other commitments."

Phryne rolled her eyes. "Jack, have you ever known me to do anything that I didn't want to do? Well?" she prompted, when he remained silent.

He shook his head. "No."

"Then you know you can believe me when I say that there is nowhere I would rather have been these last few days than by your side." Her expression changed, darkening with sorrow. "When I saw you lying there..."

He took her hand. "I'm fine, Phryne. Dr. Macmillan says I'm making good progress."

The smile she gave him was shaky, but it was a smile nonetheless. "I think I understand, now, how you felt after Gertie died. I'm sorry I wasn't more sympathetic at the time."

"And I'm sorry you had to go though that at all. That day was a nightmare for me. But," he swiftly changed the topic, "I'm here, and you're here, and that being the case you have commitments to attend to. I'll use the time to write to Rosie."

Thus he found himself the next day in her second study (and who on Earth had one of those, he wondered), a little-used room equipped with a desk and chair, plus an armchair and a half-empty bookshelf containing volumes that clearly had not been deemed worthy of a place in another, more heavily-trafficked room. Not that the study was unpleasant: in fact, he found the quiet, practical and uncluttered atmosphere much to his liking. Phryne, sensing his approval, smiled at him. "Feel free to use it any time you want for as long as you're here. There'll be times when I need the parlour, and I'd really rather you didn't feel the need to go to your room like a child being punished."

He smiled in return. "I'll bear that in mind."

The letter wasn't an easy one to write. In the end he spent half a page on banal pleasantries before tackling the real issue. He tried to keep his tone factual without saying anything that might cause alarm, keeping the tone personal – they had, after all, been married for sixteen years – without giving the impression that he needed Rosie or that they would ever again be anything other than two people who had once been married to one another. He wasted well over an hour and several sheets of Phryne's good writing paper, but eventually managed to come up with something he was willing to dispatch before slipping away to his room for a lie-down. As pathetic as he felt seeking rest after such light labour as writing a letter, the mental strain had been anything but light, and in his weakened state it was easier simply to sleep it off. When he emerged from his room several hours later Phryne was back, and they spent the rest of the afternoon in what could only be described as pleasant conversation, peppered liberally with long looks and lingering kisses.

Nonetheless, the stress must have had an effect, because much later that night he sat bolt upright in bed, hissing in pain at the strain on his side, wrestling with the clinging shreds of a nightmare and dimly aware that it had been his own fear-filled shout which had awakened him. Shaking, he drew a shuddering breath. He couldn't remember the details of his dream, but he didn't need to. Mud, and blood, and terror and death. They had started shortly after he returned from the War and had recurred with greater or lesser frequency ever since, often triggered by stress. They had distressed Rosie to the point that he had started sleeping in the spare room, frightened that he might inadvertently hurt her as he thrashed around in bed. He was running a trembling hand over his sweat-drenched face when he heard a door open, followed by swift feet before his own door burst open and the light snapped on, making him wince briefly.

"Jack!" Phryne was across the room in an instant and kneeling on the bed by his side, her eyes wide.

"It was just a nightmare love, that's all."

"I heard you cry out. You didn't pull your stitches, did you?" That was a concern, and he could only shake his head uncertainly. "Here, let me check."

This time there was nothing teasing in the way her fingers flew over the buttons of his pyjamas before loosening the bandages that still encircled his midriff. Soft fingers explored gently until she finally gave a slight sigh of relief. "No damage done." She pulled the bandages away properly and began to roll them up again in preparation for reapplying them. He watched her silently, drinking in her presence as an antidote to the poison of his dreams. She pulled his pyjama top off, then began carefully rewrapping him, her movements swift, competent, precise.

"You must have been a good nurse," he commented.

She shrugged. "There was some basic first-aid training, but most of what I know I learned on the job."

"How many of the men fell in love with you?" The nurses had always been popular, and he knew several of the men he had served with had ended up married to women who had tended them.

This time he could hear the smile in her voice when she replied. "A few."

"And you were never tempted?"

"I'd just escaped from a stifling finishing-school and a controlling family. I had absolutely no desire to have a man ruling my life instead." Her tone darkened. "Although I suppose you wouldn't know it from the way I fell for René."

"You were young," he reminded her softly.

"Very," she agreed, as she finished with his bandages and sat up on her heels to regard him properly. It was late for talking, but she suspected he was looking for an excuse to avoid trying to sleep again, and that was something she could hardly fault him for. "You know, the War was terrible, but in an odd way it was wonderful for me as well."

"Oh?"

"When I was nursing..." she paused, trying to think of how to phrase it. "It was the first time in my life that I'd ever really felt useful. As though anything I did mattered. It's being a woman, I suppose, and being very poor, then very rich; apart from having children, what opportunity do we have to do anything that counts?"

"Is that why you became a detective?" he asked.

She nodded. "Much to everyone's disapproval."

He touched her cheek. "It's been a long time since I disapproved of you."

She grinned and kissed him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He held her close, pressing more kisses against her hair and cheek. "Stay with me tonight?" he asked suddenly, and felt her tense slightly. "I know we can't... do anything," he clarified, "I just... want you near. Please, Phryne." It was a humbling admission, that he wanted her there to keep the bad dreams at bay, but he knew better than to think that she would ever hold it against him or shame him by speaking of it to others. He felt her nod her soft head against him.

"Alright." She straightened to look at him, a teasing gleam in her eye. "But no hanky-panky."

He chuckled then, softly, at the notion that she of all people would caution him against 'hanky-panky', then eased himself back down in the bed before lifting the covers invitingly. She smiled at him.

"Just let me turn out the light first."

That done she slipped in beside him and he lay on his back, wishing he could curl his body into hers as she was currently curling her body into his, but happy even so. It had been a long time since he had had the luxury of a bedmate, and the feeling of Phryne settling her head against his shoulder was precious, almost a gift.

"You know," she murmured after a few moments of tracing circles on his chest in the dark, "you're not the only person who has bad dreams."

"What do you dream about, sweetheart?" he asked, running his fingers idly up and down her arm.

"Janey, of course. Searching and searching, and never finding her. Searching for other people, too. For Jane, or Dot – or you. I dream about France; about the War, and René. Sometimes I dream about Foyle, or about something terrible happening to you. More recently, I dream about the Pandarus."

He jumped slightly at that as a thought suddenly occurred to him – he had taken himself off to comfort Rosie that night, and turned to Phryne for comfort himself in the following days, but who had been there to comfort her? Dot had Hugh, and Bert and Cec had each other, while the girls from the ship had been returned to the convent under the now-watchful care of Mother Aloysius, but who had Phryne turned to, while he was too preoccupied to care? "Oh?" he prompted carefully.

"Mmm." Her voice was soft now, pained. "I dream I'm still tied up there, all alone, and I can feel the ship leaving port. I dream..." she trailed off, and he could hear her swallowing back tears. "I dream I'm all alone," she finished, and he hugged her tight as best he could.

"You're never alone, Phryne," he told her fiercely. "If they had taken you, I would have turned the world upside-down until I found you." He paused awkwardly. "And I'm sorry I wasn't there for you afterwards," he added. "It can't have been easy, coming to terms with it all on your own."

She shrugged, and forced her tone to lightness. She had meant to comfort Jack, not upset him further with imagined guilt over failing her. "It's not as if I'm inexperienced at handling these things alone. After you left I had a stiff drink and cried myself to sleep. It works wonders."

"Even so..." he paused again, remembering Aunt Prudence. "I should have stayed," he finished, with sudden conviction.

That made her chuckle. "And let me have my way with you, with my aunt lurking downstairs?"

He chuckled too at the thought. "Maybe."

She pressed a kiss against his cheek. "You're one in a million, Jack Robinson."

He nuzzled her hair, breathing in her scent. "And you're unique in all the world," he replied, meaning every word.


	11. Chapter 11

_Teetee: Agreed! (also, I admire both your honesty and your willingness to add your username)._

* * *

When Jack awoke the next morning it was to the unfamiliar and entirely welcome weight of Phryne's body, her arm and leg flung carelessly over him, showing in sleep an even more profound disregard for his personal space than she did when she was awake. He felt a smile tug at his lips as he laid back and enjoyed the sensation, the fingers of one hand lightly caressing her arm through the satin fabric of her robe. She stirred and made a small contented sound, snuggling a little deeper against his side until, with a sharper inhalation, she awoke and pushed herself up to gaze down at him with sleep-glazed eyes and tousled hair.

"Good morning," he murmured, and she smiled.

"Yes, I do believe it is."

That made him chuckle, and he encountered no resistance as he slid his hand up to the back of her head and pulled her in for a lingering kiss.

"Once again, these aren't exactly the circumstances under which I pictured us waking up together for the first time," he sighed when they broke apart.

She drummed her fingers lightly against his chest for a moment in thought. "Perhaps instead of dwelling on what might have been, we'd be better off treasuring what we have," she suggested eventually. "And being grateful that we have it at all."

He nodded reluctantly. "When I'm well..." he began, in a tone which betrayed his frustration.

"... then we shall both take to our beds – or rather, our _bed_ – and do all manner of wicked and thoroughly delightful things to one another," she finished for him, pulling determinedly away before one or both of them began to let things get out of hand. "But for the moment, Dot will be expecting to find me in my bed very soon, and while I have absolutely no doubt that she'd know where to find me if I'm not there, I also have no doubt that word of where she _did_ find me would make its way back to Mac in short order, and then I shall get a lecture on jeopardising your recovery."

He shook his head. "You'd never do that," he responded with conviction.

"No," she agreed softly, "I never would."

Back in her own room, Phryne shut the door and flung herself face-down on the bed, stifling frustrated sobs in a pillow. Oh god, she wanted him! She wanted him so badly that she ached with it, her body hungering for his with a longing that never seemed entirely to go away anymore. She had tried easing her frustrations alone – a tactic which usually worked perfectly well – but to no avail. It wasn't just physical pleasure she craved, it was _him_. His touch, his kisses, his body. Heaving one last sob, she sat up and gave the pillow a resolute punch. At some point today, she and Mac were going to have a very pointed conversation about exactly what Jack _would_ be safely capable of, and when.

...

Some hours later Jack found himself sitting alone in the parlour trying to concentrate on the book in front of him, and failing miserably. Images of a beautiful, dark-haired seductress who had suddenly and with all her accustomed bloody-mindedness turned into a chaste and considerate nurse danced in his head. It was not that she didn't want him. She _did_ want him, and had made no secret of the fact, and the mere knowledge that he was wanted only served to intensify his own frustrated want. He blushed at the thought of asking Dr. Macmillan the kind of questions he desperately wanted to ask – she might be a doctor, and a lesbian, and quite possibly the most down-to-earth person he had ever met, not to mention the best of friends with one Phryne Fisher, but nonetheless she was still a woman and he didn't think he could ever bring himself to ask her what, how, and most importantly when he could finally consummate his relationship with Phryne. He did know that he could feel the pull of his wound every time he tensed or shifted the muscles in his abdomen, and that would make the more vigorous action involved in making love almost impossible, and possibly even dangerous, right now.

He was pulled from his introspection by a knock at the door, followed by Mr. Butler's arrival in the room.

"Your parents are here to see you, Inspector."

His parents! Somehow he was certain that no book of etiquette ever written covered the question of how a man should entertain his parents when he was a guest in his (almost) lover's house, whether in the presence of his (almost) lover or, as now, in her absence, and whilst Phryne would no doubt have laughed and suggested that there was a profitable market gap to be filled before going ahead and dealing with the situation with all her accustomed confidence and aplomb, Jack could only sit for a moment in confused silence. Fortunately, Mr. Butler was the living incarnation of etiquette, and knew exactly what to do.

"Shall I show them in and have Dorothy bring you some tea?" he suggested, much to Jack's relief.

"Uh, yes, thank you, Mr. Butler."

The unflappable manservant nodded. "Very good sir."

He rose carefully as his parents entered – and how on Earth was he supposed to make love to Phryne when he could barely stand without being very conscious of what he was doing, he wondered bitterly – and stepped forward to embrace his mother and clasp his father's hand warmly. "Mum, Dad, it's good to see you."

"You too, son." His mother looked him up and down, and evidently approved of what she saw. "Miss Fisher's taking good care of you then?"

"The very best." He gestured towards the chaise-longue, and his parents made themselves comfortable, looking around at the lavish room. Jack also sat, shifting slightly in discomfort. Surely they wouldn't take his love for Phryne, who happened to be wealthy, as a judgement on the more modest circumstances in which he had been raised? But he was reassured by his mother's smile.

"You've described it so well it almost feels like we've been here before."

"It's an unusual colour," his father remarked, although not in disapproval. "What do you say, dear, shall I use something similar the next time I repaint the kitchen?"

"Oh, you." She gave her husband an affectionate look, and Jack felt a sudden surge of wistfulness. Would this be him and Phryne one day? But then, they already bantered in such familiar terms that perhaps 'one day' had already come, and Phryne was right when she said they should enjoy what they had in the here-and-now instead of dwelling on might-have-beens.

Dot chose that moment to enter with the tea-tray.

"Miss Williams, these are my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Robinson. Mum, Dad, this is Miss Fisher's Companion, Miss Dorothy Williams."

"Pleased to meet you." Dot set the tray down and stood slightly to one side, and Jack had the distinct impression that she hadn't really expected to be introduced.

"Likewise," his father nodded and then, after a slightly awkward silence in which Dot looked at him expectantly, "milk and two sugars please, Miss Williams."

"Just the one sugar for me, and milk please," his mother added. Jack didn't bother state his own preferences – Dot had brought him enough cups of tea in the last few days to know exactly how he took it. She really did make an excellent cup, especially compared with the stewed, often lukewarm brew at the station, and the fresh baking – scones today – that was customary in the Fisher household was an additional and much-appreciated treat.

They were just taking their first appreciative sips when the front door opened again to admit Phryne. She must have taken a moment to hang her coat and hat, but then she swept into the room with her usual energy. "Mr. and Mrs. Robinson, how good to see you again!" His parents both rose to greet her, although Jack remained seated. Dot slipped out quietly to fetch another cup.

By the time tea was over, Jack's parents were coming to dinner on Friday evening. Although slightly apprehensive at the effect that one of Phryne's dinner parties might have on his family, he couldn't help but be pleased that she seemed to be getting on so well with them. But then, as his mother had pointed out, any woman who would make him so happy and was so obviously(!) in love with him would always be welcome in their family, regardless of her reputation.

"So," he asked as the two of them sat down to luncheon after his parents had left, "what did you get up to this morning?"

"Not much. An enquiry at Births, Deaths and Marriages – Hatch, Match and Dispatch?" she added, remembering that he had used the term in the past. Apparently, hearing her use it made him smile, so she smiled back and continued. "Then tea with Mac; you know, a chance to catch up. She said to tell you that she'll be round later today to take out your stitches."

He pulled a face. Whilst not actually painful, there was something decidedly disconcerting about having stitches removed. She rolled her eyes teasingly. "Would you like me to hold your hand?"

Remembering that they were alone in the room he leaned forward and challenged "you're always welcome to hold my hand – or anything else for that matter."

"Why, Jack Robinson!" She feigned shock. "Does your mother know you say things like that?"

...

He was sitting up in bed reading when his door opened later that night. "Phryne!" he exclaimed, both pleased and surprised. They had said goodnight about a half-hour earlier, and it was unlike her to come to his room after that. She said nothing, but closed the door behind her and sauntered slowly towards his bed. There was something in the deliberate nature of her actions that made his pulse jump. "Phryne?"

She sat down on the edge of the bed, close enough to feel the warmth of his leg against her thigh through the covers.

"As I said, I had tea with Mac today."

"Oh?"

"Yes, and a rather frank conversation." She turned then and knelt astride his legs, keeping her weight off him as her gaze fixed on his. "I want you to promise me something."

"That depends on what it is you're asking."

She moved up a little, resting her hands on his shoulders, and he swallowed.

"I want you to promise me that you'll let me do all the work."

"All the..." Distracted by her nearness and clear intent, it took him a moment to apprehend her meaning, but when he did he nodded. "Alright."

She nodded too, determined to make her point. "Alright?" When he nodded again, she murmured "good." Then she leaned in and kissed him. Wrapping his arms around her, he kissed her back, tentatively at first and then, as she pressed closer against him, more intensely. After a few moments she pulled away slightly and fumbled with the sash of her satin robe. Undoing the knot, she pushed it back to rest on her arms, and he realised that she was naked underneath. Wonderingly, he reached out to run his hands over her smooth, creamy skin, caressing at last the woman who had haunted his dreams for months. She was as bold as Rosie had been shy and arched back as he touched her, her pleasure unmistakable.

After a moment she reached out to undo the buttons on his pyjamas, the movements of her hands mimicking his as she explored previously-forbidden areas beneath the fabric. Mac had been adamant that sexual intercourse should be possible provided Jack was kept from moving his hips and abdomen too much, and her discreet nod to Phryne on the way out of the door that afternoon had effectively given her the all-clear to try this. Now she searched his face, looking for any trace of either physical pain or uncertainty at the direction their lovemaking was taking, and seeing nothing but happiness, and desire, and a certain degree of wonder as though he couldn't quite believe what she was doing but was very happy that she was doing it.

He had never been made love to before, he realised as he and Phryne continued to caress one another. His had always been the active role, the role of the lover, and it was a strange experience to suddenly find himself relegated to the relative passivity of the beloved. Not that he was helpless. He could touch Phryne, taste her, or lean back and admire her. What he could not do, thanks to a combination of his wound, her position, and the promise she had exacted before she had started making love to him, was take control of the situation, or his own pleasure – and, whilst that wasn't something he would be willing to accept as a permanent arrangement, tonight it felt... amazing. He moaned as she sank down onto him, and moaned again, more loudly, as she began to move against him. Yes, this. This was what he had wanted for so long now, and if it wasn't exactly the way he had imagined it, he was damned if he was going to let might-have-been steal the sweetness of this moment. He buried his face in her neck, murmuring encouragement as he forced himself to hold his hips still, to keep his word to her.

They took their time, but even so the moment had to end eventually and when it did she leaned her sweat-soaked body against his, feeling his arms wrap tighter still around her shoulders, his hand kneading restlessly at the back of her head as his lips pressed kisses to the side of her head.

"I love you," he sighed against her skin. A sudden thought occurred to him, and he cursed himself for not considering it sooner. "Phryne? I don't really know how to ask you this, but... children. I mean, do you – how-?"

She chuckled softly and kissed his cheek, then pulled back to look at him. "Well, I know I promised to try and be more law-abiding, but... family planning, Jack." She cocked her head on one side. "Are you going to arrest me?"

He huffed soft laughter at the thought. "Of course not. Although," he regarded her with mock sternness for a moment before pulling her back against him, "I might just have to detain you here for the night while I carry out a more thorough investigation."


	12. Chapter 12

Jack needn't have worried that dinner with Phryne would be overwhelming for his parents. She certainly knew how to make an impression when she wished, and was quite capable of using a lavish dinner party to subtly intimidate anyone who happened to have merited such treatment, but she also knew how to be a welcoming and hospitable hostess who could put anyone entirely at their ease within five minutes, and it was the latter skill that she employed on Friday. So at ease were his parents, in fact, that by the time dessert was served they were happily sharing with Phryne some of the stories he had told them about her, beginning with the first time they had met.

"Unbelievable," his mother quoted, much to his embarrassment. "untrained, opinionated, self-righteous and – what was the other one, dear?"

"A danger to herself and others," his father supplied helpfully. "Also, stubborn and entitled."

"Really?" Phryne folded her arms and regarded Jack with a raised eyebrow as he winced inwardly. "Well, I think that last one may have been a little unfair."

"Oh, he took them all back later," his mother reassured her. "Except possibly the one about being a danger to yourself and others." And then, in explanation, "he worries about you, dear."

"Does he?" her voice was softer now, her smile sweeter, and Jack dared to hope that he might be granted a stay of execution.

"Imaginative, and devastatingly intelligent," his father offered. "I think that was the case involving a jazz club musician?"

"Oh yes, the Green Mill club. The band's trumpet-player fired a dart from his trumpet at a blackmailer because he thought the man was having an affair with his wife. You remember, Jack? You made poor Hugh search all those women-"

He cleared his throat hastily. "Yes, I remember."

"And brave." His father added. "He's commented on that quite a few times. Very brave."

There was a slightly awkward silence as both Jack and Phryne reflected on some of the situations in which she had proven her bravery, and just how badly any one of them might have ended had things gone only a little bit differently.

"Well, anyway," his mother continued, "I think it's safe to say you managed to impress our son by figuring that one out so well."

"And have continued to impress me ever since."

...

"I'm not angry, you know," she told him, as they closed the door behind his parents. "I _can_ be self-righteous and opinionated, and of course I've never had any formal training as a detective. Just good instincts and what I've picked up from you."

"And you've always been an exceptionally quick study," he observed. Her ability to learn, and learn fast, was another of the many traits that had impressed him many times since they had met. "But I'd understand if you were angry. It can't have been pleasant hearing that I said those things about you."

"But you changed your mind?" It was a question, not a statement, and he hastened to reassure her.

"I did." He replied forcefully, then reached out for her, and she stepped forward into his embrace, laying her head on his shoulder. "Do you remember that case at the radio station?" She nodded. It still surprised her to recall the relief on his face when she had stumbled into the middle of his undercover operation and made herself available to 'guide' Hugh's official investigation. "I don't know where I'd be without you, now." He paused for a moment, just holding her there. "Dance with me, Phryne," he asked suddenly.

"Jack, Mac said-"

"That I should start getting some gentle exercise to ensure that I'm fit to return to duty in another couple of weeks. I think a waltz counts as 'gentle exercise'." He gave her a conspiratorial look. "Especially considering the other ways we've been 'exercising' over the last few days."

That made her laugh. "Ah, but we don't have any music."

He began to sway his hips slightly, moving her with him. "Does it matter?"

She smiled and let him lead. "Not at all."

...

He had offered to help Phryne with her cases, not because she required any assistance but because he was desperate for diversion from the enforced idleness of recuperation, and after a relaxing weekend together the following Monday was spent following up on leads. Phryne was very, very good at finding things for him to do that involved minimal amounts of physical activity, so he spent much of the morning going through the electoral roll in the library endeavouring to match a number of names to their most recent addresses. It was tedious work but it was work nonetheless, and he would take what he could get. Phryne, meanwhile, had a rather more active time photographing an influential gentleman's wife enjoying an intimate stroll with a man who was most definitely not her husband. He was surprised by just how seriously Phryne apparently took adultery: it had not occurred to him that a woman who was so dismissive of the idea of marriage on a personal level might hold marriage vows in such high regard. It did, however, help him to understand the subtle shift that their relationship had undergone once she had realised that he himself was no longer a married man.

They met for lunch before returning home for the afternoon, she to change before a charity tea, and he to rest, in compliance with his faithful nurse's orders. She left him seated in the parlour, a copy of _Robinson Crusoe_ open on his lap, and Dot under strict orders to look in on him every once in a while to make sure he didn't need anything, because even after a fortnight in her house he still wasn't entirely comfortable with the idea of asking her staff to do things for him that he felt he ought to do for himself.

When Dot popped her head around the door later that afternoon he was seated at the piano, Chopin flowing from beneath his fingers. Such ready access to a piano was one of the greatest luxuries of Phryne's house, he thought, and, lost in the music, he was unaware of his audience until he finished and Dot gave a little clap and squeal of delight.

"Miss Williams!"

"That was just lovely, Inspector. I do enjoy hearing you play."

He smiled. He played for Phryne quite a lot, but it hadn't occurred to him that the other members of the household might be listening too. "What's one that you like?" he asked indulgently. He was rather fond of his constable's sweet, shy, and occasionally surprisingly feisty young sweetheart.

"Oh, I don't know. Most of the songs I know are hymns."

He shrugged. He wasn't much of a churchgoer himself, but he knew the standards. "Abide With Me?" he suggested.

"I know that one," she nodded, and he cleared his throat and played the opening bars. She had a sweet voice, he thought, a clear soprano rather than Phryne's smokier, more seductive tones. Somehow, he found he could far more easily picture Phryne singing in a dimly-lit nightclub than beneath the stained glass of church windows.

...

The rest of the week passed quietly enough, and Friday evening found the two of them, as it so often did, alone in the parlour. Jack was demonstrating some of his adolescent card tricks and, though he suspected that she knew perfectly well how they were done, Phryne was laughing and clapping appreciatively, her delight encouraging him to wrack his brain for further amusements. He was laughing too for the sheer joy of being with her and making her laugh – and the thought that, as was now becoming an established habit, he would spend the night in her bed, or she in his. He hadn't yet recovered to the point where they could do 'all manner of wicked and thoroughly delightful things to one another', but they had come up with a number of 'gentle exercises' that he could only hope he would never be called upon to describe to Dr. Macmillan.

They were making enough noise that they didn't hear the front door, but were interrupted a moment later by Mr. Butler's discreet arrival.

"I'm sorry to disturb you Miss, Inspector, but Miss Sanderson is at the door."

It was as though a chill wind had swept through the room, taking all the laughter and a good deal of the warmth and light with it. Jack's hands stilled on the cards and his face fell. Phryne's smile was wiped away, to be replaced by a guarded expression.

"Shall I show her in?"

The pair exchanged a look, and Phryne realised that Jack was effectively seeking her permission before inviting his ex-wife into her house.

"Of course." And then, to Jack, "we can hardly leave her standing on the doorstep."

A moment later, Rosie Sanderson was shown into the room. She stopped in the doorway, regarding her ex-husband as he stood by the fireplace, Phryne a couple of paces away but nonetheless unmistakably by his side.

"Jack."

"Rosie."

"I got your letter; I came as soon as I could."

"There was no need."

After a moment's drawn-out silence Phryne made to step past Jack and out of the room. "Well, I suppose I'll leave the two of you-"

"Stay." It sounded like an order as he caught her arm, and he winced, softening his grip and his tone. "Please, Phryne, there's no need for you to go."

"I'm sure Miss Fisher-"

"She can stay."

Phryne looked from one to the other, wondering whether this was how Jack had felt when he had been caught between her and Rosie during the investigation into the Magdalene disappearances. "Very well then. Miss Sanderson, can I offer you a drink?"

"No thank you, Miss Fisher. I don't intend to stay for long. I received Jack's letter, and I came to see how he was doing. I went to the house first, but I might have known I'd find him here."

"Phryne was a nurse, during the War."

"While I was sitting at home twiddling my thumbs?"

"That wasn't what I meant. Rosie, if you've come here looking for a fight-"

"Then I'll stand aside and let you walk right out the door, as usual. I came here because you wrote and told me you'd been shot. Of course, you made it sound like nothing, but then I receive another letter from Ava Jackson, and she tells me that you almost died. For God's sake Jack, why didn't you call me?"

"Because I didn't feel it was necessary, and I didn't need the aggravation. You've not been here five minutes and we're arguing!"

"I came all the way from Bundaberg-"

"Well, I'm sorry that you wasted your time."

Rosie looked from her ex-husband to Phryne and back again, and her shoulders slumped suddenly. "You really would rather be with her than me, wouldn't you."

He closed his eyes, feeling more tired than he had since the day he wrote that damned letter. "I'm sorry Rosie, but yes."

Again, the silence drew out between them, until Phryne stepped in again. "Please, let me show you out," she suggested gently.

Jack moved to go with her, but she gave his hand a gentle squeeze and shook her head slightly, and the two women stepped into the hallway alone.

"I never set out to steal him from you," she told Rosie once the door to the parlour was closed behind them. "I won't deny that I enjoy male company, but I generally steer clear of married men." She gave a wry smile. "They're too much trouble. And regardless of the state of your marriage when I met him, as far as Jack was concerned he was still very, very married." She paused, and then continued. "Miss Sanderson, whatever you may think of me, Jack was never unfaithful to you."

Rosie turned to her then, tears in her eyes. "I couldn't fix it, Miss Fisher. I tried, but I couldn't fix it. I couldn't fix him. And then you come along, with your fancy hair and your fancy clothes, and suddenly he's got his spark back. He's almost like the old Jack. How could you do that? How could you do that, when I failed all those times?"

"We can't go back, Miss Sanderson," she said slowly, drawing not on her knowledge of Jack but on her own often-bitter experiences. "No matter how much we may want to, we can never go back in our lives. We can only move forward. Perhaps that's the difference: you kept wanting Jack to go back. I... like to keep moving forward."

"And me, Miss Fisher? How would you have me move forward now, without him? It's not easy, you know, for a woman on her own."

Phryne bit back a hard laugh, thinking of those long months in Paris when, in spite of her friends, she had been penniless and so very, very alone. "I don't know, Miss Sanderson. But whatever you do decide to do, you will need to do it without Jack. He's made his choice."

That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. "His choice! A tart like you? And what will happen when you're done with him? When you move forward, leaving him behind? You'll have ruined both our lives, and for what? A fling with a police inspector? Why don't you stick to your own kind, instead of-"

"Jack will never be a fling to me! I love him, and I have no intention of letting him go." She drew a steadying breath. "Do you have somewhere to stay?"

The woman appeared nonplussed by that, but Phryne wasn't about to throw her out onto the street in the dark if she had nowhere to go. "I... friends of mine, in Richmond."

"Well in that case, I think it's time you left. And I'd appreciate it if you did not come to my house again."

Rosie Sanderson glared at her as though she wanted to say more, a lot more, but then pulled on her gloves with a sharp exhalation of anger and left without another word. Phryne closed the door behind her and leaned on it, taking a deep breath. This was not the way she had planned on ending her evening.


	13. Chapter 13

Jack was drumming his fingers anxiously on the mantlepiece when she re-entered the room. With a sigh, she fetched the whiskey decanter and glasses and poured them both another drink.

"She's staying with friends in Richmond, apparently."

"You asked?"

"Of course. I wouldn't leave her to wander the streets alone, Jack."

He remembered himself, and to whom he was speaking. For all Phryne could be dazzlingly insensitive at times, she could also be remarkably caring, especially of those she perceived as being vulnerable. "Of course not. Thank you."

"You're welcome." She stepped closer to him, so that she had to tilt her head back slightly to see his face. "Are you alright?"

He sighed. "Not really. I didn't expect her to come here." He reached out and drew her closer still, leaning his forehead against hers. "Although I suppose she has a point about finding me here. Now that I'm more or less recovered, I should probably think about moving back to my own house."

Not 'my own home', Phryne noted, and she held her breath for a moment, wondering whether she dared speak aloud the idea that had been growing in the back of her mind for a number of days. "You know," she said slowly, "you don't have to leave." He raised his head sharply to meet her gaze, and she fumbled for words, uncertain. Perhaps he would reject the idea out of hand. Living in sin was hardly the kind of thing decent, respectable men like Jack Robinson did, after all. Her next words tumbled out in a rush. "It's just that I know you mentioned that you had an offer on the house, and even if that doesn't work out it's bound to sell eventually, and I know there are boarding houses, but really, Jack, I can't imagine you being happy in a place like that, and with the hours you work I can't imagine a landlady being happy with you either, and it's been so good having you here, and we haven't quarrelled at all, and I know sooner or later we will, but we've always made up in the past, and-"

"Phryne." He cut her off with a kiss before she could work herself up into too much of a frenzy. "I think it's an excellent idea."

"... you do?"

"I mean, there'll be practicalities to discuss, bills and the like, and sleeping arrangements, but, yes, I can see this working out quite well for both of us." He paused. "Officially, you'll be my landlady, of course, but I doubt anyone will make too much of a fuss over it. Except possibly Rosie, and at this stage I suspect there's really no avoiding that."

"I suspect not." She gave a sudden crow of laughter and hugged him around the waist, remembering just in time not to squeeze too tight. She grinned up at him, then snuggled happily against his chest as he hugged her close.

"You have thought this through?" he asked, knowing that was not often one of her strengths. To him the idea seemed eminently practical and perfectly workable, if also unconventional and, in some people's eyes, immoral. But she lifted her head and looked at him again, all trace of laughter gone, and nodded seriously.

"I have, Jack, believe me." She rolled her eyes in self-deprecation. "I know I have a history of making rash and impulsive decisions, but this isn't one of them. You have never been one of them."

He took her hand and drew her upstairs.

...

Later, in bed, Phryne traced the patterns of his scars, the inevitable and indelible price of the life of a soldier and policeman. Rosie, he recalled, had never touched him in such a way and had seemed reluctant even to look at the marks his wounds had left. Now his lover's lips moved tenderly over the knot a German bullet had left in his upper arm and he sighed in pleasure. It was good to be here, in this safe, dark, private world so far from the death and violence that seemed to permeate so much of his life.

"She told me once that I'd made things worse for you," Phryne remarked suddenly. Truthfully, she had all but forgotten Rosie's comment until the woman had reappeared on her doorstep.

"Rosie said that?" Jack turned towards her, his arms reaching automatically to gather her to him. "When? Tonight?"

She shook her head and snuggled into him. "During the Pandarus case. When I got you into so much strife with her father."

"That was hardly your fault. As you said yourself, George needed both of us off the case." He paused for a moment to kiss her head. "And she's wrong, anyway." Remembering, he sang softly,  
"Everything went wrong,  
And the whole day long  
I'd feel so blue  
For the longest while.  
I'd forget to smile  
Then I met you."  
"When I met you," he told her now, "that was when things started getting better."

She smiled and kissed him. "I'm glad we agree on that. And I feel the same way about you."

"You do?"

"Of course. Oh, Jack. Don't you realise what you mean to me? That you're everything I never knew I'd always been searching for?" She burrowed her face back into his chest, so that the rest of her words came out muffled. "No-one's ever loved me the way you do."

He didn't bother dispute that because he rather suspected it was true. From what he had gleaned of her past her family had offered her precious little warmth or kindness, and Dubois' treatment had only reinforced in her mind the message that 'love' was a thing too often entwined with violence and control, whilst subsequent lovers had been more interested in the pleasures of the flesh than any true intimacy. Instead, he turned the conversation to more practical issues.

"I know I'll need to have my own room for appearance's sake," he began, "and that it's not usual for a couple of your class to share a bed, but, Phryne, I really do prefer sleeping with you. Is that – would you be comfortable with that?"

She smiled up at him again, her mood swinging in its usual mercurial manner. "I think I can live with that. In fact-" her hand made a sudden sweep down his body, drawing a gasp of pleasure from his lips "- I think I might even enjoy it."

...

Having become distracted the night before, it wasn't until the following afternoon that they had the opportunity to sit down and discuss the practicalities of living together. He protested that she was asking too little for board. She countered that it would cover food and utilities, and what did he take her for that she would charge him for the pleasure of sharing her house? Besides, his lifestyle would inevitably change now that it was to be entwined with hers, and he'd need that money soon enough. She asked him whether her late hours and frequent entertaining would be a problem, and he had to admit that he would need to limit his involvement if he were to be fit to perform his duties at work. He asked, a little uncomfortably, what arrangements would need to be made if and when he wanted to entertain guests of his own, and she responded that he should consider this his home, but to keep her informed of any major commitments to ensure that there were no conflicts. Would his parents accept their arrangement, she wondered, and he observed with amusement that he suspected from certain comments they had made that they already had. What about her parents, he enquired, and she shrugged indifferently and pointed out that disinheriting an only child of her class was damned difficult and, anyway, even if they did she was a woman of independent means and was not about to be blackmailed into giving up the man she loved. She asked him whether he was truly comfortable sleeping in her bed, given her history there, and he wryly admitted that he hadn't thought of it until that moment, but now that she mentioned it... She would order a new one tomorrow, she told him, and then they would have the fun of breaking it in together. To her surprise he neither blushed nor stuttered at that, but instead smiled in thought.

For all that it was a serious conversation it was punctuated by their usual laughter and banter, and it was arranged that Bert and Cec would handle the removal of his possessions either for sale or to her – their – residence whenever he gave the word.

...

Mac returned a few days later to check on her patient once again. With Phryne alongside she checked the now all-but-healed wound in Jack's side, listened to his heart and lungs, had him bend, stretch and twist a few times, and nodded in satisfaction.

"You've made excellent progress. I wish all my patients did so well." She gave Phryne a knowing look. "And you've clearly been getting plenty of light exercise." Phryne smirked, while Jack suddenly found himself fascinated by something just outside the window. She was Phryne's friend: of course she knew. "So," the good doctor went on, "another week of good food, and plenty of vigorous exercise now, and you should be fit to return to work by this time next week."

"Wonderful!" Phryne wrapped her arms around his waist as he busied himself in readjusting his clothing. "Criminals of South Melbourne beware! Can I offer you a drink, Mac?"

"Well, since this is my last call of the day, I don't see why not."

It wasn't one drink, of course, but several, followed by dinner and songs around the piano before Phryne finally saw her friend out at around 10pm. Strong arms wrapped around her from behind as she closed the door, and Jack's mouth latched onto her neck in a way that made his intentions crystal clear.

"Following doctor's orders, Jack?" she asked in a teasing tone.

"Well, if I only have a week, then the more exercise the better. And I seem to recall that we have a deal for you to make good on, Miss Phryne Fisher."

She chuckled her delicious, sensual laugh. "And what do you intend to do with me, Inspector Robinson?"

He turned her towards the stairs and gave her a gentle push. "You'll find out soon enough," he replied huskily.

* * *

_And here endeth my fic BUT for a deliciously M-rated coda see 'Fully Seen', which picks up where this leaves off. _

_A note as well to let you know that I'm planning on taking a break from writing fanfiction for a while. Maybe I'll be back, maybe not. I'll still be lurking around the site, though (I have to get my MFMM fix somehow!), so feel free to PM me. Many thanks to all the wonderful people who have read and reviewed my writing and supported me with feedback, information and ideas. Special thanks to Seldarius, Xfphile, WhatsABriard, Duskbutterfly, Ethelfreda, and, of course, FoxFireside._


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